Estimates.

Finished writing for the night.

As of now, I have written 143,137 words of original fiction so far this year.

Whenever I am feeling dissatisfied, I ought to remind myself that that's a pretty freaking big number.

Three entries in the dream diary.

I had not one but three notable dreams last night.

Unfortunately, despite waking up, waking Megan up, and explaining to her what I had just dreamed so I would not forget them, I have entirely forgotten the first dream.

In the second dream, I was Robin -- Tim Drake -- and I was participating in a sort of obstacle-course-investigation puzzle-labyrinth that Batman had constructed for Cassandra Cain's birthday. It was very cool, and I kept getting ahead on the puzzle side of things, while getting my but kicked on the martial arts side of things. Though I did get to explain to a pretty blonde girl the difference between an outside sweep and an inside sweep when you are tripping someone, which of course required me to knock her down (gently) and catch her repeatedly.

Balls. Just remembered the first dream. Eww. No wonder I forgot it.

In the first dream, I was helping advise a group of Evangelical Christians on the most effective techniques for out-proselytizing their local rivals, a really big Buddhist temple and community center. Before I knew it, they had bribed me into helping them actually plan a raid on the center, intimidating people and forcing them to evacuate so we could loot the place and burn it down. Somewhere toward the end of this, my shame caught up with me, I switched sides, and my explanation of our tactics helped the Buddhists and local police arrest everyone involved.

Still, I woke up feeling really dirty. Usually, when I dream, I have comparable morals to my waking self.

In my third dream, I was a paparazzi reporter, working on a series of interviews with a daredevil country star. In the process of some truly determined stalking -- down to being in a boat underneath the bridge she was bungee jumping off of -- I managed to score an exclusive interview, partly because she had a crush on me, but after I awkwardly displayed my wedding ring she got much less talkative. It was obvious she was being pushed to do uncomfortable things (like bungee jumping) by image-concerned publicists, and really hated paparazzi harassment, so I was sympathetically trying to help her evade other interviewers and feel comfortable with herself, and hope that by NOT pressuring her into giving me a scoop, she would feel more talkative and give me a scoop.

Woke up after that one feeling mostly confused. There was a subplot about workplace politics in the grocery store we were dodging reporters in, but it made even less sense.

I dunno what my brain is trying to tell me, man.

Dear Yulegoat;

I absolutely will be writing a Yuletide letter for you within the next few days. Just in case assignments go out before I finish it, I wanted to assure you: it is on its way quite soon.