my bowl of chicken soup for now: in the middle of the night, aliens aboard a mini-cooper extract me from my bed then take me away to outer space and drop me off an island that has only one house. and in that house there is a jukebox. and a dancefloor. and a room full of cheese and mayonnaise. and a giant hand that i don't see giving me a massage.

or maybe an illness that would make me bed-bound.

or maybe, just maybe, drugs. drugs sound like a good idea.

or a slew of those personality quizzes and friendster surveys.

or feeling my eyebrows raise when i find out a friend in friendster being 'in a relationship.' (mental note: call durga)

or a sudden delivery of thin-crust pizza.

or maybe just not listening too much to my head.

or clicking away at either amazon.com or target.com.

or imagining x's brains blown off, then the crime scene being investigated by the csi new york people.

or my hair made into those tiny lovely braids. and then not shampoo for a month.

or lotion.

or my hair being combed until i fall asleep.

or sleep.

or dream.