The word dream springs from the same linguistic root as trauma, isn’t that interesting? I had another social-anxiety nightmare. In this one, Alusha left an angry and detailed message on my voicemail accusing me of having spilled the beans to her gay friends about her engagement to Matt Crosby, thus spoiling a tea party she’d held in Brisbane’s Botanic Gardens in order to make the announcement herself.

Now, as far as I know, Alusha and Matt have never met, let alone been to Brisbane. They’re from entirely different branches of the Yatima extended family. Even in the dream, I maintained that I didn’t know any of Alusha’s gay friends and therefore couldn’t be the source of the leak, but since I make that kind of faux pas all the time, I was nonetheless considered the likeliest culprit. To my relief, the rest of the dream devolved into an intricate set of real estate dealings around Manly and Bondi beaches.

Trying to wake up enough to drive to SFO. For the second time in ten years, my shy and phobic mother is flying alone halfway around the world to see me. I’m very proud of her.

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