For the third time in a week, I dreamt I was shampooing my hair.
There is no need to procure in-depth Freudian psycho-analysis to glean what this could possibly mean. I am supposed to get out of bed and shower, and my body resolutely refuses to do so. Perhaps trying to be funny, my body instead cheats my brain into thinking that I am already in the shower. I eventually wake up drowsily feeling for my hair and discovering with a shock that it is still dry, tangled, and on the pillow. The message my body is sending is profoundly simple: “Sleep, bitch.”
With all my heart and soul I wish I could comply with nature’s call. But for some reason everything always needs to be done by tomorrow morning. Why must everything always be done by tomorrow morning? Tomorrow morning became an ominous large looming shadow over my head which compelled me to bring documents everywhere I went on the weekend (not that I actually read them). Tomorrow morning gave me unforgiving shampoo dreams. Tomorrow morning is relentless and cruel to humanity.
As a pre-emptive strike, if I may borrow battle-zone terminologies to emphasize the nature of the situation, yesterday I took the initiative to propose my own timing to The Powers That Be. All brisk and business-like, I put on a confident tone and said “Great! I’ll have this done before noon tomorrow!” In reply The Powers That Be said, “How about 10 in the morning?”
Teez the great defiant warrior princess replied:
“Um, okay.”
There is no need to procure in-depth Freudian psycho-analysis to glean what this could possibly mean. I am supposed to get out of bed and shower, and my body resolutely refuses to do so. Perhaps trying to be funny, my body instead cheats my brain into thinking that I am already in the shower. I eventually wake up drowsily feeling for my hair and discovering with a shock that it is still dry, tangled, and on the pillow. The message my body is sending is profoundly simple: “Sleep, bitch.”
With all my heart and soul I wish I could comply with nature’s call. But for some reason everything always needs to be done by tomorrow morning. Why must everything always be done by tomorrow morning? Tomorrow morning became an ominous large looming shadow over my head which compelled me to bring documents everywhere I went on the weekend (not that I actually read them). Tomorrow morning gave me unforgiving shampoo dreams. Tomorrow morning is relentless and cruel to humanity.
As a pre-emptive strike, if I may borrow battle-zone terminologies to emphasize the nature of the situation, yesterday I took the initiative to propose my own timing to The Powers That Be. All brisk and business-like, I put on a confident tone and said “Great! I’ll have this done before noon tomorrow!” In reply The Powers That Be said, “How about 10 in the morning?”
Teez the great defiant warrior princess replied:
“Um, okay.”
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