Oh, my gosh, the nightmare. No slimy monsters, no bad guys chasing me with weapons, no deaths of anyone – dear or not dear.

There was a bad guy . . . and it was me. I made one mistake after another and my life was on its way down the drain – probably into a sewer into which people had released pythons. The time frame was a jumble; somehow my last home was a slanting trailer that was the second floor of an old apartment building with a brick courtyard.

Not one bit of this seeped into that part of my sleeping brain that often hints “dream”.

But, hey, I think my cold is better.

I actually spent a second thinking about all my brain cells draining out of my nose with summer cold mucous. But, of course, if they all left, I wouldn’t be thinking at all. I feel, though, as if they all have dripped out; I feel like an ox-moron (and, no, that is not a typo).

I have no motivation – not even for forbidden fruits.

Blah. With sniffs and coughs.

The icemaker in the refrigerator has not kept up with demand and I am almost iceless. “Ruth, don’t take our ice to town.” I’m that pathetic: random phrases that come close to nonsense.