Nevermind the Weasels.

So, I'm really not going to write a sad, frustrated, mopey blog. Really, I'm not. The latter part of January actually feels bizarrely hopeful to me. I'm languishing in subjunctivity, but this feels like it has a distinct shelflife. My writerly juices are percolating. I think I can sense them even in my dreams, which have been uncommonly bizarre recently. In one, I was about to go down on Tina from the L-Word when I thought better of it. She'd recently hooked up with this guy who SEEMED really nice, but whom I felt certain the later episodes would prove a total sleazebag. Then, last night, a whole portion of the world was suddenly shrunk down into dusty, miniscule proportions and I was forced to sift through little draws of dust to try to find my books (which were about the size of unpopped corn kernels) and laptop. Sadly, or perhaps ominously, I never did find my damned computer. The whole affair was apparently orchestrated and the villains, with whom I was strangely and suddenly in league, had a special microscope sort of thing that you could put the shrunken objects under to restore them to the regular size. The point in all of this being that an active dream life just must be a good sign, right? Usually in my dreams, I'm swimming with gargantuan sealife--sharks, whales, crocodiles, dinosaurs, that kind of thing--or fishing mermaids out of huge vats of jelly. It's all very chthonic, really. You'd think C would be suspicious of all the womb imagery. We're never having kids. Really, we're not. Unless it ACCIDENTALLY happens. But then the rest of the world is totally fucked, anyway, and we're taking over.