If and when I wake up myself in my apartment tomorrow, I’ll be glad to be me, still, still being me.

There’s a chance — but then there’s always a chance — that the monstrous vermin I found on my bedroom wall, who little doubt entered through a hole in a screen of a window of mine, is a synchronicious symbol of what’ll greet me tomorrow morning when I look in the mirror. That image may be a bleary-eyed, red-eyed and pink-skinned night owl. It may also be a giant vagina.

There’s nothing like a vacation to step out of yourself and all things that make you who you are, all your habits, all your rituals, all the “choices” you make day after day, most without thinking, all without care that you made the same one yesterday and, lacking DNA swap, will make the same one tomorrow in the multiple-choice test of Working Life, which of course is the elementary school version of Real Life, which incidentally garners you college credit while demanding clear, concise, critical analysis in essay form of a question the answer to which you already know since you’ve been in every class, read every assigned page, and some unassigned ones, acted like you didn’t study and believed your lies and crammed like you had to.

I’ve still got vacation buzz, skinnydipping in the Sea of Responsiblity, toasty warm and sleepy. Tomorrow, idling in the onramp of the highway of my daily routine, I may see and fully comprehend what now, in this time and place, this state of mind, can only manifest itself as a tiny little bug but may tomorrow reveal itself to my clear, rested eyes as an enormous vagina, pulsating in space in my bedroom, a wet black hole which craves in astral love to accept the whole world and feel fulfilled but, when seen from outside, is nothing more than negative space, inverted from its purpose and existing solely, without soul, to be impaled by the holy world it should penetrate.