I should go to bed.

And dream sweet little dreams that make me feel all sweet inside.

My dreams are an agent of chaos.

In my dreams: well, I was gonna describe my dreams here.  But I never remember them.  I’m scared of this guy:

Well, not scared exactly.  It’s silly to be scared of dead people.  But what if Freud showed up in my dreams?  How f’n Freudian would that be?  And what if he started psychoanalyzing my dream in progress?  Like doing some kind of running commentary, like a DVD special feature, telling me things like (imagine guttural Austrian accent here—the more guttural, the better) “that car you just climbed into is a manifestation of the broken collar bone you suffered at four, as filtered through the vision of a hemorroidic elf you’ve repressed since age 11” and then “the decision to jump into the shallow end of that pool while wearing a jaguar loincloth and saddle shoes reveals that you feel hopeless in the face of the impending alien apocalypse” and finally “that you are now having a conversation with Edmund Wilson reveals that you harbor sexual feelings towards the woman you harbor sexual feelings towards.  But please don’t ask me to explain why you, just now, pulled a rabbit out a hat and shouted ‘The taxi makes the vegetables fly!’ and proceeded to pour your tea on Mr. Wilson’s head.”

Sometimes a Freudian slip is just a Freudian slip.

My dreams aren’t agents of chaos.  I just wanted to write “agent of chaos” cause I just saw Dark Knight a second time.  My socks—they are an agent of chaos.