I finished the rough draft of my novel. It may be good once I fix all the things wrong with it. The main thing is that I finished it. The other main thing is that the things wrong with it aren’t nearly as prevalent as I previously believed… I think. It’s in the hands of people I trust right now. The wait on review is killing me. Last night I had horrible dreams. Most involved a woman falling in love with me, and my phone not working to call her. It was frustrating. Not that hard to put some meaning behind that one. Last night I dreamt that I was holding my brain in my hands as it crumbled to bits, like old play-dough left out for too long. It was multicolored like the plastic brains in biology class or your old doctors office. I tried to set it with glue, but as I blew on the glue my brain would fall to chunks in my hands. The jawbone wouldn’t set right. I was too ashamed to ask for help. It would be embarrassing to have other people know about my secret old-play-dough brain. So I cried, lamenting how broken I’ll be for the rest of my play-dough brained life. Also, earlier today I had the thought that I’d go to the coffee shop and start work on the next novel. There is something seriously wrong with me, and writers in general. This is alexx, checking out. Go to alexxcast dot com for verbalization of this stuff.