Last night, I woke up screaming. The dream began with having to get to the theatre for opening night of my role as Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman. I had to be there early because I had never read the play, so I had a lot to rehearse. First I had to get dressed and shave. Shaving took forever. My face seemed impossibly wide, and every time I turned my head I’d find a new spot of thick, gnarly whiskers I’d overlooked. The razor was dull, I was out of shaving cream. My beard extended all the way to the back of my neck. I cut myself. I brushed my teeth and got toothpaste everywhere. I went to get dressed, but the good white shirt I had was dirty, so I had to wear one that was sort of ragged and old and not the right color. Where was my tie? I buttoned my shirt wrong. Every button took forever to do, my fingers were completely numb, I slowly buttoned each button again, and it was wrong again. That’s when I became totally enraged and started yelling and woke myself, and Bookdwarf, and the cats.
“What’s wrong?”
“I couldn’t get my shirt buttoned right.”
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Secretly Ironic 