This is the strangest life I've ever known.

Today I hallucinated that there were 2 boxes of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in my kitchen.

They were waiting for me, and I had branded them mine with a sharpie already the day before. I just couldn’t remember where they were. At about 1pm, when I should have been studying for a psychology final for Trinity, I was crawling on my kitchen counters looking for a non-existent box of artificial coloring and bleached noodles.

It was at this point that I started considering that I may have a hinge loose. Or a marble rolling around a bit. But either way, I had 6 slices of bread today. And that helped matters.

It’s gotten harder to keep up on my bread reflections. Ever since Easter, I have systematically returned to a blessed and simple life of bread. My days are effortless, and without a care. It’s almost like the bread hiatus never occurred. And going to Paris didn’t help my motivation.

It was my dream and Mecca for countless years. The city of light. And accordions. And smelly metros and people. What happens when you get your dream?

You find yourself standing in front of James Douglas Morrison’s gravesite. Except when you envisioned it, you were alone and free to sit idly by and ponder his music and sexual appeal all to your peaceful self. I stood in front of his ‘gently loved’ gravesite, with a few dozen other tourists in Pere Lachaise as cigarettes were thrown and middle-aged women speaking French asked me who the dead guy was.

I can’t cry, because then they’ll think I’m crazy.

I can’t yell at them, because they won’t understand my American gibberish anyhow. And I will prove their suspicions correct that I am, in fact, crazy.

I said, He was a Poet. They don’t understand.

So I just looked on. I considered hopping the gate to hump his headstone, but I know for a fact that has been happening for 40 years, and I’m not about to start copying 3 generations of groupies.

I realized there was still half a loaf of bread in my shoulder bag. As I strolled away, stronger and wiser than before, I nibbled at the French baguette. It was one of the only things that morning that lived up to the hype.

Sometimes, dreams aren’t as good as reality.

But I guess, maybe, that’s when you find a new dream.

After Paris, my travels (and a volcano in Iceland), stranded me and Allison in Geneva, Switzerland. But that’s another story.

I found my new dream.