Notes to self

Last night I wrote a note to myself not buy fried chicken. I always regret it. The only kind of fried chicken they sell in the South at Bojangles. It is spicy, addictive, and doesn't make me unhappy.

Last night I also had a bunch of weird dreams. I dreamed that I was talking with a girl who was then accosted by a gang and led away down a staircase in a garage, but just before, I used her cell phone to page the police. Then I went back up to this house and watched TV. I ducked when this SUV came by, but it stopped because the driver saw the top of my head. I suddenly remembered that I'd forgotten to actually call the police to tell them what happened. Later I was in some kind of ballroom at a graduation party. Then later I was playing golf at this mini-course and we (Tyler Hefford-Anderson [he was married last Saturday, by the way] and I) were also supposed to come up with some kind of musical for class which I believe was theological in nature. You know, normal weird dreams.

So I woke up and started writing them down. I swear it took two sheets, in this almost unreadable scrawl, another note to myself.

Then I woke up again.

When I got in the shower, I wrote a few words on the tiles about what happened so I wouldn't forget.

Then I wrote another note to myself on this blog.