I had a dream about you. I was sitting on your couch, relating my succession of ideas on subconscious influence. I asked you what they meant, and you told me that free associations were a bad way to advance my political career.
The idealist hopes. The romantic sees doom. The postmodernist sees doom and hopes.
Mom always said I was born to sit in the electric chair, but I’m proving her wrong. I’m going to die on my knees, begging for my life.
The lampshade on my head is for my bright ideas. I won’t be able to convey them until Monday, when my curtain gets out of the dry cleaners.