Dreaming about shooting two (admittedly not very close) friends to save other (very close) friends: bad. Dreaming about staging a revolution with nothing more than broken chair legs against two men who had been cutting off boys' arms and decided to kidnap Kristin and me: worse. Waking up to an overturned garbage can, a half-chewed piece of chicken breast on the floor, and two smug-looking cats: not my idea of a cheerful fucking wake-up.

And never ever say "this means it can't get worse," because everything can get worse.

I am going to lay in bed and read for the rest of the day. Nothing can get at me in my bedroom with the door closed. I will be safe there.

Buh-bye, folks.