Notwithstanding the fact that listening to other people discuss their nocturnal visions and visitations is about as interesting as a not-very-interesting thing, last night I dreamt that Notorious BIG did a secret gig at the Brixton Windmill and then I got home to find out that my dad had hanged himself. Armchair psychoanalysts, do your worst. Or share your nightmares. Whichever.
I feel like shit today. This should have been a blog, right?