Who is the bitch, you might ask?
My own fucking subconscious, that's who.
I sing her praises, tell others how often she gotten me out of plot scrapes, rely on her to flesh out my characters, and what does she do?
She throws all my insecurities in my face.
The other night I dreamed I'm in a store, perusing the magazine rack. I'm thumbing through a dream version of Entertainment Weekly when I stumble across an article about two people I know. There's matching full-page spreads about the movies coming out based on books written by these two. The article goes on to describe their rise to the NYT list, and how their next book contracts are estimated to be the seven figure range.
[Now, I know these two people in real life. They've both worked their asses off to get where they are and are very successful authors, but in reality, it's nowhere near the level described in my dream magazine.]
Thanks, Subconscious. Thanks a lot.
[If you don't get the movie reference, download, rent or buy Sky High. A little formulaic, but funny as hell.]
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