and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

Can't help thinking that most things don't work the way they should. Most things aren't perfect. Most things, in fact, are inherently flawed.

Stop sometimes to look towards myself and ask, inherently, what is wrong with me? Something, somewhere, gotta be wrong with me.. sure, a lotta probablies, a few maybes, and some sort ofs but really, inherently, what is wrong with me?

Society, it would seem, thinks something is wrong with me. It tells me everyday with it's prescription drug commercials, it's motivational self-help books, it's www weight-watchers ads, it's subtle hints that maybe I should get a job, be productive, fight-the-good-fight. Bah. I don't got the fight in me, quite frankly, for a war I don't believe in.. and I'm not talking about Iraq here. I don't have the muscle, the mental majesty, the productive bone in my body, to do what this society would have me do, if it could truly control me.

As it is, it's got only a vague sense of something like puppet strings attached to me. Springy, stretchy strings that, when pulled, have only the slightest hint of an effect. Like the gentle rocking of a giant oceanliner on the sea. Like the subtle questioning one does in life, everyday, every time you roll over in bed and ask yourself "why am I not getting up right now, I should!". Like the moment you figure out that life has been charging you a monthly fee all this time and you've just never noticed but are then sidetracked onto something for more important like paying your credit card bill.

After awhile it all piles up. The random tick here. The odd spasm there. Things start to make you wonder, an air of questioning settles on you like a blanket of fog, and you start bumbling through it with the slightest bit more attention than you had before. Now, it would seem, you're on the trail like a smarmy fast-talking slueth with a edge for the macabre. Everything, you think for-sure, has a dark and questionable past. Everyone has an alterior motive. You find yourself on the brink of enlightenment, in some abandoned mansion on the hill in the dark on the night of a full moon with the wolves hollowing in the background about to discover the true murderer when.. You come to, wake up, watching a bad Red-Eye visine commercial on tv with Ben Stein. "You need alergy medicine", the television convinces you. You feel wozy and the solution starts to fade away, back into the fog, back into the static of the television as the station goes off the air and you realize that it's past your bedtime, you've fallen asleep on the couch, you've forgotten your heart medication, you've not paid your bills on time, you're late for work, you are mean and surly, you don't appreciate post-modernism, you think - *gasp* - Julia Roberts wasn't that hot in the first place and that maybe, just maybe, you never liked The Sopranos to begin with.

None of this makes sense so you leave it on the coffee table for tomorrow and just stumble off to bed. You throw your cat off the covers and climb under the sheets and even this, it seems, is society telling you that you're somehow wrong. Normal people don't operate on this schedule. Productive Members of Society, that oft-elusive club, won't even return your calls. You don't even hate your alarm clock anymore - it hates you.

The next morning you wake up. Coffee. You don't feel great as you stumble out into the world but it's bright out, people are frantically walking too and fro as if the day started hours ago, people look busy. You feel groggy, unkempt, awful.. but everyone else is doing it.

Why not me?