I dreamed last night that I rescued the Pope from drowning.

He wasn’t grateful.

Disgusted, I retired to my apartment and smoked a bowl with one of Gandhi’s acolytes. Then his mother called and he had to act sober to talk to her. Apparently enlightenment does not spare one certain indignities.

I woke up to discover that my relentlessly cheerful brain was making up new lyrics to “That’s Amore,” of which the only one I remember (because I was singing it when I woke up) was “When your heart turns to ice, just like frozen fried rice, that’s amoreaaaaaaaaaaaayyy…”

And now, to work! Or at least errands, and then work!

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