This is what happens when I fall asleep on the couch.

I dreamt that by hanging out with some goth boy I acquired a few handicaps. And when I stopped at McDonald's for a strawberry milkshake, someone stole my motorized wheelchair, my car, and my prosthetic middle finger. When I tried to call someone, I couldn't remember anyone's name or number or where I worked. Later, I was at this terrifying funhouse, and the last ride was a shallow staircase you had to climb with both hands and feet, and when you got to the top you had to answer questions on a variety of really morbid, Rotten.com-type subjects. If you couldn't, your fingers were slowly smashed between laquered wooden boards.

Oh I am ill.

I am ill with laughter. http://www.wimp.com/talkingcats/

On Sunday night

I dreamt I had multiple nipple piercings and the starring role in a production of Annie.

This post inspired by the instrumental part of “Funkytown”

Everyone knows I wish I could sing. What would be even better is if my throat and mouth could produce violin notes. (And produce them without strain or movement, not unlike the way a bird just opens its mouth like “mahh” and complicated songs pour out.)

To Jclay et al

I finally got a chance to rent The Constant Gardener. I’d been only lukewarm about seeing it, even though I loved City of God, because I read that it was written by mass-market paperback king John LeCarre. I didn’t care for the movie, particularly. The acting was very act-y, the story was limp. I’d have preferred to watch a documentary on drug companies’ influence on healthcare in Africa. The movie is simultaneously a love story, a revenge story, a political expose and a thriller, and it was, for me, too much motive with not enough weight.

Jenn Misreads a Headline, or, I Wish I Was Making This Up

Jenn: “Yeah, they found Mad Cow disease in Alabama.”

Boss: nods in acknowledgement.

Jenn: “I guess it’s going to affect the beer supply.”

Boss: looks quizzical.

Jenn: “Or wait…maybe they said BEEF supply?”

Boss: begins to shake.

Jenn: “WELL THEY USE ANIMAL ENZYMES TO PROCESS ALCOHOL AND…”

Boss: can’t breathe. Can’t breathe for the red-faced, vein-pulsing laughter.

The first 70-degree day of the year…

And it appears once again that flipflops are the default spring shoe. Nothing more attractive than grimy, uninspired footwear that lends its devotees the shuffling gait of an infirm, elderly woman in house slippers.

Three dreams

I am charged with taking a story about a young, heroin-addicted father who sexually abuses his 6-year-old daughter, and turning it into a full-length ballet.

I turn out to be not-so-good at figure skating, but fast on the ice. Naturally, I become a hockey player. (This dream brought on by, I’m sure, the atrocious ads for Cutting Edge 2.)

I’m sleeping in a snowy back yard, and suddenly sense that I’m being watched. Mountain lions follow me up a steep bank and through the sliding glass door. They are rambunctious like big floppy dogs, but also too transfixed by the sight of our necks. The police tranquilize them with huge syringes. One animal doesn’t survive the chemicals. I slump to the floor with guilt.

AUGH

To Crash producer Cathy Schulman:

It was a fluke, your movie was shit, and your earrings looked ridiculous with that dress. Fah-hucccck YOU.

Melissa’s March Horoscope (a selection for your enjoyment)

“Uranus’s job in a chart is to swiftly identify situations that have come to an end of their usefulness, rip them away, and open you up for something more productive.” Juvenile laughter ensues all around the office.