I had to scoot down to the Pocket City, Dale Evans favorite berg, on Sunday evening to be there for a Monday morning meeting.
I woke in the early morning hours in a cold sweat. I rarely dream, but I just had a doozy. I dreamed I died in my sleep, in a hotel. Was it heart attack or stroke? I have no idea. I was looking down on my body lying in the bed, bowls empty, eyes staring at nothing in the far distance. I saw the maid come into the room and scream. She crossed herself and spoke Spanish to my corpse.
I know some things. I do not want to be buried with shoes or socks on. The Cubs will break my heart. Beef and noodles must be served with mashed potatoes. I do not want to die alone in a fucking Hampton Inn.