Morning Pops and Popsadoodles. It's day two WFT vs Dallas afterglow. If victory tastes sweet, and it does, Sunday was the equivalent of a whole cheesecake chased down with a dozen donuts. Your body will hate you for it, but your stomach will sing 'Let's Go Cowboys!!!'. Steele's and the defense's TDs were the decadent icing on that cheesecake.
I mentioned getting mad at Coachadoodles from a dream I had. Please believe I don't control the craziness; maybe being forced to suppress emotions growing up plays some part in it. Here goes: It stars me, Runny's avatar and an actor playing Coach.
I dreamt that I'd gotten a state-of-the-art motorcycle and it was purple. I could program it to do all sorts of things and I'm a sucker for buttons. I was playing with it and programmed it to head home after five minutes of idling unless I gave it some gas overriding the command. I meant to change the time on it. I'd already chased that thing a couple of times before going to visit Coach. When it took off again, I was too tired to chase it so I ran up to Coach's door and knocked harder than I should. When I told him the situation, he said maybe he should shave for his adoring audience. Runny was there and was asking what all my motorcycle could do. He said he'd help me get it and Coach pish poshed the idea. We got into his black Hummer and went in search of my rogue purple motorcycle.
The dream was about the 'ahs' of new technology with the frustration of figuring it out. Add an internal meltdown, last dream of the night and I woke up mad.
That's all folks. Another unsettling peek inside my subconscious.
