Isn't that one of the cues for the postmodern apocalypse?
I'm blogging about my dreams, and dreaming about my blogs, and blogging about my dreams in the blog I have in my dreams. Dreamblog, blogdream. Metablog, metadream. Metablogdream (yeah, that's a word, I have the authority to say so).
Last night in my nocturnal, unconscious reality, a friend of mine called me from another province while I was in the library. She offered me a virtual reality book deal, as in, I would write a book based on my blog (sounds riveting!) that would be distributed directly to the Canadian population's collective unconscious.
Then I dreamed that I bought a male friend of mine an outfit from ML. I boxed it up nicely and everything. Some nice khakis, a black miniskirt to layer over top of the khakis, and one item that we actually sell at the store: an extremely stretchy textured black and white floral short-sleeved turtleneck. I thought it would give his wardrobe some variety. I guessed that his pant size was 34x34, but later in the day when I was sneakily snuggling with him I peaked at the size of the pants he was wearing (a size that was displayed, obviously, inside the neck of his polo shirt) and discovered that they were 40x40. I started to rue the fashion industry and how it destroys men's self-esteem. Then I told all the loud people in the library to stop being assholes and wrote a blog about my social courage.
Would you rather I gift you with a boxed set of women's clothing, or with my never-ending self-conscious inner narrative?
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