Last night, I slept fitfully. Perhaps this was because the heat was turned up to 80 degrees Fahrenheit in my apartment to accommodate my roommate, who misses India. Anyway, I had strange dreams. In one of these, I was working as some kind of lowly administrative assistant in the Obama White House. Staff were running all over the place, and there was some kind of commotion going on. “Rahm just blew it! Completely blew it. I’m going to cut his fucking head off and I don’t care if he’s my boss!” a stout, prematurely balding and red-faced staffer bellowed, wiping beads of sweat from his brow with a piece of crumpled computer paper. Everyone crowded around, apparently reading the scoop about how Rahm Emmanuel had said something awful, thus triggering the first big public relations disaster of the new Administration. I tried to squeeze into the huddle to see what the sweaty paper said, but another staffer, a girl who looked like my NYU roommate shouted, “Get back to your desk!” and said my name in this awful sing-song way that was no doubt dredged up from the depths of my junior high school memories. I scurried back to my desk and promptly downed a whole bottle of what looked like ecstasy tablets while a fat chinchilla settled on my filing cabinet. The dream then ended, but I think I was mumbling something about Rahm Emmanuel and my student loan debt as I regained consciousness.
I have workplace self-esteem issues. As for the chinchilla and club drugs, I really have no clue. Mischa is good at non-serious armchair psychoanalysis, maybe he has a theory.