When I woke up, I was positive it was Monday. Absolutely, 150% positive. I was up. I had work in X hours. I had rehearsal that night. My bedside clock said I was up early. My cell phone and computer disagreed. Confused, I remembered reading something about Daylight Savings . . . and said no, that doesn't happen this early in the month. Except it did.

So not only was it Sunday, I was an hour behind.

And the dreams . . . I dreamed that my dad came to see Hamlet, and, by extension, me. Somehow, I knew who he was even though I haven't seen him since I was six years old. I couldn't see his face, but I could see mine. We were standing in the lobby and I asked him what he was doing there and he didn't respond. I said he shouldn't be there and he still didn't say anything. I considered crying and making a scene just so someone would tell him to go away, but I didn't. I didn't really feel anything. I didn't want to talk to him or see him, I just wanted to walk away. But I woke up before I could.

It's like I can't ever really relax. Something is always happening.