Challenge: Include 3 cliches, a confession, and a cat.
I wake up thick as a brick, mouth sour, heart pounding from another dream (ancient disaster, moral panic, alternate unreality). I am old, Father William, and my brain is made of sealing wax. Forget the cabbages and kings, all I need is a lazyboy, a nice fat cat for my squashy lap, my yarn stash, streaming TV, and a reasonable pension. I’ll confess: I’m tired of trying to be smart. Mornings like this, I ache to take a permanent vacation — not a dirt nap, if you know what I mean, but a little intellectual oblivion, a wee disconnection from sense — to fall into the herd of happy grazing test pattern brain waves, wandering in walking comas, to live at last my authentic American-style good life.