I keep have a recurring dream. I wake up in my bedroom to my alarm  
going off and my roommate standing in the doorway asking me why I  
haven't turned off my alarm in days. Confused, I get up and realize  
that my thesis defense started twenty minutes ago. But I can't find  
my thesis. Or my computer. Or a quality pair of (expensive!)  
distressed jeans to wear. Perhaps more alarmingly, in this dream I  
have a full beard. This happens every other day.

Friends, the Thesis Insanity is in its full anti-glory right now.  
Perhaps this is because I've put myself on a plan that calls for  
eight hour writing days, then a break to think about going to the  
gym, decline that notion and watch part of the John Adams HBO mini-
series on my couch with several sleeves of Whole Foods brand Oreo's,  
a short nap on that couch while John and Abbey Adams share moments of  
passionate sophistry and then a second session that usually lasts  
until I fall asleep on my computer with my face mashed up betwixt the  
JKL and ; keys. The ending to my book won't stop expanding; each  
scene calls for much more work than I originally imagined; much more  
detail to explain where we're at, more details in the dialogue, more  
everything. I would be more specific but the idea of expanding on  
something other than my book saddens/frightens me, much like the  
movie Harry and the Hendersons. Less to the point, I haven't watched  
anything on Netflix since February!!! Do you know how far in the past  
February is???!? Sadly, I do not.

Of course there are bright sides to my pity party Evite. I have  
increased my typed words per minute by just under infinity. For some  
reason, other publications are all of a sudden interested in me doing  
magazine work for them. And, as my dad points out, I "finally know  
what it feels like to actually live in the real world," something he  
has informed me I "need to get used to" if I expect to ever "be  
invited to SoCal again." The fact that he said this from his cell  
phone as he was on a golf course and someone in the background was  
imploring that he "hit his lob wedge" remains a source of  
considerable angst.

The truth, friends, is that I'm just tired. I know I will look back  
on this time and remember how hard I worked and how intensive and  
invested I was and that will really make me appreciate a finished  
novel all the more, but right now I just want to take my shirt off,  
wrap it around my head, turn on some intensely melancholy indie rock  
and lie in my bed until May flowers have eclipsed April showers and  
someone has paid my taxes and washed my hand towels.

That is a dream I wouldn't mind having.

As I attempt to keep it more or less real, tell me happy things in  
the Comments, friends.

Sun shines through the rain.

Eternal,
Flame

The Bangles.