Thermodynamics is driving me insane.

No, seriously. Insane.

I burst into his office and sat down.

“I just came here to say –”, I began, but stopped abruptly, re-thinking my words.

“I just came here to say,” I repeated slowly, “that I have nothing to say — at least for today.”

I grinned proudly.

He looked at me, somewhat bemused.

“You’re still here,” he said.

“I’m still here,” I said.

“Aren’t you supposed to disappear?”

“Disappear into the oblivion?”

“Yeah. ‘Poof!’ Just like that. Into a puff of illogical-ness.”

Man, I’m feelin’ invincible.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go divide by zero until I’m good n’ happy.

Yesterday was my birthday.

Happy birthday, me.

It’s always a surprise when people remember my birthday. I almost never mention it. I mean, it just seems so pointless.

In any case, four friends called me.

All while I was asleep. Imagine that.

“Happy Birthday Phil,” one of them said.

“[incomprehensible mumbling] mmph-irrthday? [groan] mmphto ytoo?”

“Not my birthday. Yours,” she clarified, “Were you sleeping?”

“No,” I lied.

“Well happy birthday, then.”

“[incomprehensible grumbling] mmph–tastic, we’ve circled the sun again.”

“It’s your birthday. It’s an excuse to be happy. Stop being so grumpy.”

I’m such a grouch. Even on my birthday.

It was all very sweet, though I’m not sure why all four of them were girls — I wonder if girls are just naturally more attentive towards these things.

One of them even brought over this beautifully wrapped present for me, complete with lavender silk bow and expensive wrapping paper.

Shocked — the only thing I could do was give her a peck on the cheek and an awkward hug.

I’m a misanthropic, overworked grouch. But I have friends.

Friends I don’t deserve.

I bet they’ll realize it one day. And then I’ll still be a mean grouch, but without any friends.

I was married.

In my dream, I mean. I was married, except to who I can’t remember. I don’t think I ever saw her.

Or maybe I wasn’t married. Maybe I was just living with that girl.

How quaint.

In any case, it was freakin’ domestic, man. Like, her parents were there. And they were doing laundry. My laundry. Why would my wife’s parents be doing my laundry, huh? Isn’t there something seriously wrong with that picture?

Obviously my dream-self didn’t think so. He was totally oblivious to the awkwardness of it all. In fact, I think he liked it. Typical.

You probably think there’s some hidden plot twist coming up, like how my wife went all Glenn Close and Fatal Attractions on me, but actually, this was a dream entirely devoid of any point.

Except maybe to show me that married life isn’t all that bad. It’s nice. It’s warm and cuddly. Like, y’know, those Nestle Tea commercials where everybody huddles around a fireplace to cook smores and open Christmas presents.

It was like the perfect family. Her mom was real nice and obviously a great cook. And I think we had sausages for breakfast. Or was it lunch?

I bet it was brunch, because that’s what perfect families do: they have sausages for brunch as a family.

And you know the best part?

I was happy. Happy doing nothing. Happy living a domestic life.

Happy to talk to my wife’s mom while she did the laundry.

My laundry.

What the hell?