Dream In Two Acts

I was installing software for an ultra-right-wing newsletter. They saw one of my essays, and offered me a contract for three articles a week, to be published in their magazine. Me and the dittoheads. When I seemed upset about the company I was keeping, my editor turned to me and said, "Well, you're a good writer, but you're 50 years old, and you've barely published anything before. What did you expect?"

At this point I woke up, looked at the clock (it was 3am) and wished that sometimes my subconscious would just be a *little* more subtle. It must not have a very high opinion of me...

So, I went back to sleep, and I was in the same place, only it was years later. I was the magazine's most popular columnist. I had my own desk at the office. I got daily fan mail from people I despised, and my editor (same guy) was asking me about starting a second column, putting in writing some of my vitriolic attacks on my dittohead fans, to share all the stuff I've been saying around the office with them.

OK, subconscious mind, I can take a fucking hint.