god's foot upon the treadle of the loom

The night before last I dreamed about my life as it is now. It was really sunny and colourful and very home-movieish, moments with my girl, success at my job, nothing too specific, but, you know, good feelings. Then the dream breaks through the fourth wall and there's old Joe Pesci, wearing glasses like Lew Wasserman's. My dream is a film he's screening in his study. He turns away from it and says to the projectionist: "This isn't working. We have to do something." When I woke up, it was 2005.

Don't fucking tell me that. I'm not ready to have a bad year. Give me at least a couple months to brace for it.