Last night I had a dream–yeah, sometimes I dream, you know, it’s a good way to pass a night. There was this giant balloon dodgeball war, full of attractive young people, but before we could start the game, this giant, slack-jawed, mall-cop guy started to tell us we were stupid, and he didn’t want to be here, watching over us, and then he started bugging high people, and kicking them out, and getting them to sing “Y.M.C.A” to prove they weren’t high. Everyone got really quiet because most people were high and they didn’t want to get kicked out. So then, with one more insult, the big sheriff guy turned his back to the crowd and walked to the edge of the field. And just when he’d walked far enough that he would never be able to see me (I didn’t want to get kicked out of the game, either), I yelled “Boo!” but no one else in the crowd joined in. A few seconds passed, and then some voice came out of the crowd and said, “Thank you,” and it seemed like whoever said it was directing it to me. And that made everything feel right, and good. My dreams definitely don’t have the subtlest of metaphors, but whoever’s writing the scripts sure knows how to get me.