Roll With The Tumbling Tumbleweeds
Last night I had a dream where I was practicing my drive.
Obviously, I'm not a golfer. In fact, if you don't count the miniature kind, I've actually never been golfing in my entire life, so why the grand sport of Scotland showed up in my dreams is anybody's guess.
But there I was, gathering up golf balls and putting them into a tennis ball can so that I could perfect my swing. Incidentally, the golf balls--though they were golf balls in the definite way things in a dream can be something even if they appear to be something entirely different--were actually ping-pong balls. And ping-pong balls look a lot like Rover from The Prisoner, and in a third season episode of the smash-hit Canadian CGI cartoon ReBoot one of the characters has a long, surreal dream sequence where a younger version of himself says "Be seeing you," then hits a golf ball that turns into Rover at him.
But now I know I'm overthinking it.
Anyway, the next thing I knew I was running down the highway. Fast. Like, doing sixty in a fifty-five. Going downhill, I even passed a few cars. But then it got cloudy, so I decided to run over to a State Park on a nearby mountain and get some more golf practice in.
Then I woke up, built a shelf, and bought a Napoleon Dynamite t-shirt at Wal-Mart, because the idea of supporting an Evil Corporate Empire™ while simultaneously falling into the trap of becoming a cliched twenty-something was oughtweighed by the thought of updating my blog whilst wearing a t-shirt that said "You're Just Jealous Because I Chat Online With Babes All Day."
You know, just in case you were wondering what it's like to be me.
One other item of interest though. Today I went to the gas station, and even though I paid at the pump, the receipt came out inside. So I went in and told the guy I needed it.
"Okay," he said, "Which number are you?"
I looked outside to where my car was parked, then looked up at the number. Then I slowly turned my head back to him.
"I am... Number Six."
It was totally awesome.