wampum

Last night I had a dream that my hair was long and straight-ish (like it was when I was ... 12? 13? Somewhere) and that I was in a nice hotel room with a huge grand piano made out of some sort of blond wood and I was a piano expert and almost wept because it was such a nice piano but when I tried to play it L. showed up as her 8-year-old self and kept belittling me until I (responding like my 9-year-old self) got angry and peevish and refused to do anything except wander the room alone. Also everything I tried to play sounded terrible so... I woke up realizing I needed to memorize more pieces and/or write a tango.

Need the sleeps. Been opening/baking at the coffee shop and then going straight to closing/opening shifts at the restaurant with (at the most) an hour between jobs. Then I get off work and read "Madame Bovary" until I fall asleep and wonder what she had to take to be so stupid, or if Charles (recounted in a chapter later expunged from the text for morality reasons) grew pot and his "doctor" work was conveniently mistranslated from the original which read "cannabis dispenser."

But anyway. Work = $$$$!

which more often feels like

$$$$?

because I remember that I don't care a whole lot about money (suddenly I remember that I also must PAY RENT and for ELECTRICITY). Still, not doing too bad in the dollar department. My mind is at ease which is not normally the case when I contemplate money. Booo money. I wonder what people would do if I tried to pay for everything with mussel shells.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but this is not money."

"I'm sorry, sir, but this is wampum. I'm reporting you to the Bureau of Indian Affairs."

Don't mess around with the BIA. I hear they have friends at the BLM and the BLM (as we all know) has weaponized what's left of the wild mustang herds.