And you need to deal with my solutions.

I’d been dreaming that I was rolling around in the snow, a popular pastime in some cultures. That led led to a playful snowball fight that escalated into horrific attacks. My opponents and I were flinging razor-sharp ice disks and spiky icicles; all of us were bleeding.

I wonder if being cold led me to dream about snow and ice, or vice-versa?

The main problem I foresee is that I’ll be too dead to enjoy it. And that’s why I’m in the initial stages of planning my first wake while I’m still alive. It should be great; I’ll invite my friends and we can have a few drinks and talk while there’s still time.

The only problem is that I throw extraordinarily boring parties; all my friends know better than to show up for some cauliflower bits and cheap wine. I’m not sure how I’ll host a good party without being dead, but I have some time to figure it out.

I think.

He was a memorable idiot. He wrote to the purported queen of England, “Dear Liz, if you want to know a real man, come to Kampala.” I suspect his lewd advance was rejected; he also wrote her to request, “I would like you to arrange for me to visit Scotland, Ireland, and Wales to meet the heads of revolutionary movements fighting against your imperialist oppression.”

I acknowledge a fellow Dada buffoon, but, much more importantly, I have to loathe a mass murder and Hitler supporter, which is certainly Amin’s legacy. Amin beheaded some of his hundreds of thousands of victims and stored their heads in his home freezer. Later, he placed their heads around his dinner table and “converse” with them.

It’s people like Idi Amin who give Dada a bad name. Good riddance to the king of Scotland.

I’ll never have a drink with Jessica Grace Wing; she died of cancer a few weeks ago. She completed the music for Lost, an opera based on the Hansel and Gretel fairy tale, just before she died. Had she lived a few more days, she would have been thirty-two.

Jessica Grace Wing sounded like a banger, but her story is definitely a weeper.

Domino toppling, for example.

Ma Lihua, from Beijing, China, set up and knocked down some three-hundred and three thousand dominoes, despite repeated acts of sabotage during six weeks of preparation. It seems that Lihua wasn’t the only one who had access to the hall at Singapore Expo. Huge tropical cockroaches—some the size of a rabid poodle—prowled the fields of dominoes after Lihua has finished her twelve-hour days.

Clop plop clop plop plop clop plop plop plop clop plop clop clop clop plop ...

The next morning, Lihua would survey the damage, have a cry, then resume her ridiculous task. I empathized with her; I have days like that.

I didn’t recognize a thing; it was the perfect souvenir.