Dreams, Reflections, and Memories

What a way to start off yet another exciting week at the brain trust: My back seized up in the shower this morning, so now I'm lumbering around with my gut thrust out like a pregnant lady, and I'm still reeling from the nightmare I had about being stuck in the middle of a roundtable discussion about prom in my AP English class. As I was the only one not going, I requested we cease the discussion because I found it painful, and the whole class booed. Like THAT didn't have any basis in reality or anything.

On my way to work, I tried to quell the rising tide of nauseated panic (oh, the stench of those hallways! The fetid stew of the cafeteria, the locker rooms, and hormonal adolescents! How you've seared yourself into my brain; how impossible you are to capture in mere words) with some internal debate about the Andy Warhol documentary I saw on PBS yesterday--unless I missed something at the beginning, how can they do a film about Andy Warhol and not mention Edie Sedgwick? Usually, thinking about passive-agressive hipsters of yore serves as a pleasant diversion from youthful traumas, but in this case it was like trying to salve a burn with butter. So then I tried to resurrect the lovely Tennessee Williams discussion I had with my acting teacher yesterday--FYI, the streetcar named Desire is now a bus (thanks, Claudia, for that disconcerting piece of information)--but that just dredged up the memory of my evil 11th grade English teacher, who dismissed my paper on The Glass Menagerie as "too depressing." I wish I'd known then that TW died with a pill bottle lodged in his throat, or that his sister, Rose (geddit, Mrs. Teacher? Rose? Blue Roses? Laura Wingfield?) was the recipient of the first prefrontal lobotomy in the state of Mississippi. Ah, l'esprit de l'escalier.

Anyway. You think you have this shit resolved, and it turns out all you've managed to do, yet again, is pave over it with a particularly cheap brand of cement.