Dear brain,

You truly are a random bastard, aren’t you? There can be no other explanation.

By day I struggle to figure out what the hell I’m doing with my writing, more often than not only coming up with ideas worth a toss on the way to and from work. Most of the time, these ideas can’t be applied to writing, I’m not at a point where I can use said idea or I’m not skilled enough to make them happen in the formats they are better suited to. Seriously, what good is thinking up fighting game stages to F-777′s music if I’m not even in a position to make a fighting came or even contribute to one? Same with car chases. How do I even begin to put that in writing?

When I sleep, you get just plain Ultimate Batshit. My dreams of late have included female veteran news reporters spontaneously kissing one another on live TV for giggles, a homeless bum that receives a Green Lantern ring shaped like a tankard with a skull chained to its base, the Goddamn Batman having a Kickstarter project anonymously set up for him to raise funds for mass production of the Nolanverse’s Bat in Newcastle… nothing that even makes sense. Then there’s today’s when I dreamed I was a little girl whose house had been slightly robbed. WHAT. WHY?

Knock it off, you random bastard. It’s driving me nuts.

Yours facepalmingly,

Richie Stacker.

P.S. Why did I have an implosive device in that last dream and why did nobody even seem to give a toss that someone almost got killed by it? Seriously, that’s just… disturbing. Actually, that’s beyond disturbing and you need a strait jacket. Developed by Bruce Wayne. Pronto.