I'm about thirty pages from finishing A Million Little Pieces and I had a Frey-inspired nightmare last night. The gist was that my mother (who was Julianne Moore) sold my child and her body to a crackhead who lived in a car at the end of our driveway. No matter how hard we tried to convince her, she refused to come back home and stop doing crack.
Of course, I had just given birth to the baby that she sold, and I also had CD jewel-cases that were made out of candy. I can't really explain where the hell those aspects of the dream came from.
We were also having a family reunion at the time (how embarassing is it to have a family reunion around the time when your mom becomes a crack whore?), so there were a lot of distant cousins who I didn't know. A few of them were middle-eastern, which was surprising, and when one asked me how we were related, I was tempted to ask my grandmother, but didn't for fear that our newly-interracial family might be a sore subject.
Yesterday I got the best / gayest package from Christina, which included two DVDs (Working Girl and 9 to 5) and a mix CD with showtunes on it because, as Christina wrote, "It's the only area of music I felt like I could out-do you in." Thanks, Christina!
Chicago is really cold again, so I kind of just want to spend my day in bed. I've been doing that for the last two days, however, so I'm going to actually try to do something this afternoon. That'll probably just involve going to Dan and Kristin's and watching them unpack boxes. I lead such a manic, exciting lifestyle.
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