It's not meant to be a dream journal, but this week, dreams are what I got.

A teacher at a school for magicians on my last day.  It's not meant to be my last day, but people have come and shot up the school, could still be shooting, for all I know, and I am frantic, looking for my students among the living and the dead, directing them to "the main building" because somehow I know they will be safer there.  The search goes on, and contains many horrible discoveries.  I never once see a shooter.

Cut to months later, I have not shaven recently, I have gained weight, and I have not held down a job.  I have become an amateur investigator in my own right, as none of the perpetrators have ever been identified, let alone apprehended.  I am hungover, and going to the police station to be put in some sort of bureaucratic hell, intimidated and needled by beefy cops with beefy mustaches, while one young idealist of a detective tries to get information out of me so she can investigate.  I want to talk to her, but she keeps getting called away and I keep getting called names and threatened with penalties to arcane laws.

This morning, I opened up a blank tab and saw the box for fivethirtyeight, and while I was grateful to it throughout the fall, I am even more grateful that I don't need to look at it anymore.