My beloved and late dog, Bela, having all his hair pulled off and then falling down three stories right in front of me; being afflicted, worse than ever, by anxiety and barely able to function in life: These were last night’s nightmares. No wonder I abused Marijuana; it made me sleep without nightmares. My anxiety is now much worse in the night than in the day.
When I awakened after the dream of being dreadfully incapacitated by anxiety symptoms, I worried today would be awful. It really shook me, that nightmare, but I am, as I have been for over two weeks, in great shape.
I think I’ll as Cathy today, when I see her, if she has any anti-nightmare pills I could have. (I’m kidding.)
I talked to my buddy, Bruce, last night and I mentioned that I’d had some good news.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Rush Limbaugh has cancer,” I replied.
“Isn’t that great!” he said.
“Super great,” I concurred.
I don’t remember every being happy someone was sick, but there are other outspoken intolerants for whom I wish the same fate. One down, though. (I’m a bad boy.)
Snow this morning; not much, but the trees and lawn are white. However, rain is predicted for tomorrow. There are days when rain is welcome!
Anna and Gunther are two lovely people with whom I walk in the afternoons in Rollo Park. I really like them. But yesterday I took my leave early as they got into a discussion about the Coronavirus being a conspiracy, the new hospital in Wuhan being fake Russian propaganda, etc. etc.
I’m two hundred pages into my second Franzen novel; there’s four hundred to go. And my third of his novels arrived yesterday in the post and it, too, is six hundred pages. What gives? Does he wonder what six hundred page novel I can write next?