Why It is Sometimes Good to Avoid Getting Keyed Up and Liquored Before Bed

Because when I don't, I have dreams about Jason Segel in which we are friends in some sort of apocalyptic, Dhalgren-esque commune, and he will be in charge of the IV that I have trailing out of the crook of my arm. Under uncomfortable circumstances of some sort, it will fall out, leaving a gaping and hollowed out vein that keeps painfully bleeding and oozing, and he will be the only one who can replace it, but he will get shit-faced and silly and, thus, unable to reinsert it for me, so it will keep seeping all over my clothing.

I will leap into a pile of jackets as though they are crisp autumnal leaves.

He will laugh hard while drunk on the ratty couch.

My best friend from high school will jump from a low cement wall and land on her hands and knees, scraping the shit out of them.

Something will loom in the streets of the city with a deep foreboding, but I will not remember what it is when I wake up.

Too much Apatow lately methinks.

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