Ma vie comme un chien

It's official. Not that it would matter if it was unofficial. Work is dreadful, and it snowed six inches on Thursday night, requiring a half hour "dig-the-car-out-of-it's-snowy-entombment" fest yesterday.

I sleep about 12 hours a day now (even on my days off) to recover from the gauntlet that is work, and it says something when your crappy boring dream life is better than your reality. Any way, last night I dreamt en francais, and was doing French homework. Mon Dieu, if my dreams got any more pedestrian I'd have to conjure the spirit of Franz Kafka for some help, not that turning into a large cockroach would do me any favors at this point.

Any way, if I have any say in what I get to become in the next life, assuming there is one, I'd like to be a dog. And not just any dog, but my dog, if that makes any sense. Yeah, dogs lick themselves and roll in deer poop because it smells good to them, but maybe I'd be one of those oddball dog's that doesn't. And if I were my dog... Well. My dog gets to sleep 20 hours a day and be waited on hand and foot. I would honestly have no problem sleeping twenty hours a day, ensconced in someone's warm, hospitable home environs, without a care in the world beyond, "When's dinner? And where's that food lady who feeds and pets me?" I'd never have to grocery shop, clean the house, do laundry, iron, scrub the toilet, get stuck in traffic when I'm late for an appointment, and I'd certainly never have to suction purulent sputum from someone's airway as part of my job description. My dog totally has it made, man.

Unfortunately my present incarnation as gainfully employed human being means I have to go do exactly that (suction purulent sputum, et al) in about half an hour. While my dog sleeps on my couch and looks put out about his lot in life.