Zoning out and daydreaming have always been a huge flaw of mine.  Perhaps at times delightful?  But, in the midst of a work meeting or other important conversations, it’s frowned upon that now is the time where I think about the sun blowing up ahead of schedule, and only a select few (including myself) were aboard the International Space Station and were thrust out faster than the speed of light and SURVIVED.

It was quite a long time ago I realized that my daydreaming of “What if X happened” made me rather passionate about writing.

Today’s daydream was rather relentless in evolving into something spectacular.  I had written something incredibly feministic.  So feministic it blew across Trump’s desk and I was deemed a moron, bravely accused through the shield of his Twitter no less, and suddenly eyes around the globe were on me to answer for it.  What was so excessively intense that I’ve been deemed such an idiot?  As the piece gained popularity, publishers were banging down my door to house the title, I was banned from the country by the President and his noble staff.

I was in court, on trial for being un-American.

I was invited into Canada by the PM himself – over Twitter (duh).

This whole thing kept rolling into the craziest thingI I’ve ever zoned out for.

I had to ask my personal nurse to dab my brow, as the sweat was forming so quickly I could barely keep up.

On my lunch break I had to keep telling myself “You’ve only got thirty minutes, keep it together.”

My reality started to cross with the daydream, someone came up to me on the street, I thought they were going to ask to take a picture with me, but really I was blocking the door he was trying to enter.

I already got cocky, thinking about how much everyone adored me, but no one had read the very thing I had written.  They just wanted to be part of it.

I had become James Franco and Seth Rogen with The Interview.  They’re declared enemies of North Korea for making a comedic movie that isn’t at all good, but everyone supported because it’s the democratic thing to do.  And now, the very same is happening to me.

I wondered if any of my family would get kicked out of the country, too?  Could we visit each other?  Is the Canadian PM really a dick – it would suck if he was, he’s rather good looking and cried on TV that one time.  But that’s really side-tracking into masturbatory daydreaming and that does no good while driving home from work.

Anytime I wrote something new, the world heralded it as amazing feminist literature – I’m the next Iron Jawed Angel, I’m going to save all vaginas from prejudices and closed the gender wage gap 100%.

I arrived home feeling exhausted.  The street was quiet, and yet here I stood not bothered, the newest enemy of the state.  And I had done it all before 9 PM EST.  I slammed my car door with a solid “amen, sister” and hoped secret assassins wouldn’t jump out of the bushes and kill me, or have already poisoned the tacos bundled in the brown paper bag safely clutched in my hand.

I changed into more comfortable clothes and I hope that if my body is found dead in the morning, you all know I died wearing what I love, my purple fleece pants with the hole in the crotch.