I’ve been feeling very on edge lately.

And I’m tired of it.

… because you know what they say is the “worst” actually tastes the best.

Never mind that. Men’s Health, the men’s magazine dedicated to health, fitness, sex, relationships, and so on (think Cosmo for your dad) has a section every month called “Eat This, Not That.” This month, they’ve targeted the 20 worst-for-you foods this great land has to offer. I’m inclined to say that none of the items surprise me: Chipotle’s burritos, for example, though f’ing amazing, weigh about ninety-three pounds. P.F. Chang’s chicken lo mein is to die for (and maybe you will after eating it, of sudden heart failure), but were you to leave it on a paper plate for longer than three seconds, the plate would undoubtedly be translucent from the grease.

But it was number one that made me smile: Outback Steakhouse’s Aussie cheese fries with ranch dressing. Mmm. 2900 calories of yummy goodness. The description reads, “This weapon of mass construction is the caloric equivalent of eating 14 Krispy Kreme doughnuts, before your dinner arrives. Even if you split this ’starter’ with 3 friends, you’ll have downed a meal’s worth of calories.” Meg, darling, you’re a terrible influence.

I dreamt about zombies last night.

This isn’t a rarity. One every two or three months I’ll have an extremely vivid zombie dream, and it isn’t simply because I’m inclined to watch more than my fair share of living dead movies - and last night was no exception, as I watched the first Resident Evil, which was good until they introduced the slimy monster guy.

This recurring dream - and I refuse to call it a nightmare, because somehow it doesn’t feel like one - involves me, a group of people who I have never seen before, and a world overrun by zombies. Consider the most recent remake of Dawn of the Dead, where the zombies can run, are very strong, and are generally not as stupid as they usually are made to be as the basis for this.

I never die in these dreams. I am usually leading a group of people to some semblance of safety; a few months ago, we were trying to reach a loft space in a large mansion by the side of a lake, for example.

The interesting part of these dreams is that it always somehow parallels something going on in my life at the time, and is usually work-related. Some time ago I was stressed out over the fact that I felt myself to be the minion of the marketing team whose ideas and suggestions always seemed to be overlooked by the higher-ups. This was echoed in the dream; I was doing my damnedest to get the group I was leading to safety, but for some reason no one acknowledged me as I tried to maneuver an extremely heavy ladder towards the loft we were trying to reach.

I’m curious as to the basis for these dreams, not so much because of the parallel between the actions in the dream and what’s going on at the office, because that’s rather obvious, but because of the prevalence of the living dead. The most common interpretation I’ve found of zombie dreams includes the subject as a zombie himself. Dream-Meanings.org says,

To see or dream that you are a zombie, suggests that you are physically and/or emotionally detached from people and situations that are currently surrounding you. You are feeling out of touch.

Alternatively, it may indicate that you are feeling dead inside and are simply going through the motions of daily living.

This is decidedly not the case with me. Apart from randomly being stressed out about something, I’m generally happy with my life and everything in it. I have a great home life, and despite somewhat tumultuous periods - perfectly normal, I’ve heard - I do love my job.

Anyway, the point of all this is that, in last night’s dream, there was a first-time experience: I chopped off the arm of one of my company’s software engineers. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been feeling overwhelmed lately with the big launch and all (in this dream, there were far more zombies than usual - another parallel, methinks). But I have no ill well towards the guy. In fact, I thought it to be rather amusing.

I started smoking on my eighteenth birthday because, well, I thought I looked cool. My forays into the smoking world expanded upon reaching St Andrews where, my first year, a good 30 to 40 percent of the students/population smoked on a regular basis. I figured I would quit after graduating … didn’t happen. I decided to quit when I moved to New Jersey … didn’t happen. I was really going to stop when they passed the smoking ban … didn’t happen, and I froze my ass off on a regular basis.

Now, though, I got myself a prescription for Chantix. I know, I know, many of you will think that’s the lazy man’s way out, taking a prescription instead of using self control to quit, but as many of you know, self control isn’t always my strong point where habits are concerned. Basically, Chantix blocks the receptors in the brain that usually suck up all the nicotine … so you can smoke and smoke and it’ll do nothing for you until eventually you realize it’s hopeless and quit.

Of course, I’m not one for remembering to take pills on a regular basis either, but Chantix really seems to work when I remember to pop one. In fact, every time I take it - and they say you’re meant to keep smoking while you’re quitting, which is how I got sold on the idea - the cigarettes I have a) taste awful, and b) make me feel nauseous. So if I’m able to maintain the daily pill schedule, I think I’d definitely be an ex-smoker within a few weeks.

Anyway, I was perusing the site of the 2008 Bloggies (think the Oscars for bloggers) and made my way over to the “Best Writing of a Weblog” category, where I found the winner, Confessions of a Pioneer Woman. And - would ya look at that - I was thoroughly horrified-slash-amused (terrible, I know, but I can’t help it) by the first post I saw. Little kids aren’t as oblivious as they seem.

Finally, I did the math: if I were to quit smoking, which I fully intend to do soon (though after the Brits leave - Becks is my smoking buddy, and it would be too hard to give that up while she’s here), the cost savings per month would amount to half of a car payment. That’s a good incentive right there.

Yes, I bought a car this weekend, and it’s a beaut. Wait for pictures, ‘cos you know they’re comin’.

So I’m guessing that whole “indigestion” diagnosis was incorrect.  It’s not supposed to last two days, is it?  I’m thinking it’s likely that I pulled one of my abdominal muscles, but regardless of anything, I’m definitely going to make an appearance at the doctor’s after work today.  Blah.  It’s a last resort … but I think it’s necessary.  No sense in doubling over with pain every few minutes.