The metaphor is undeniably fantastic.

Today is supposed to be the day I meet with Maryland\’s Department of Rehabilitation Services (for gimps, not addicts) to show my counselor the Plan I have put together that maps out my school courses for the next two years. The course load is supposed to then transfer to another school of my choice, and the major of my choice. I have to explain to DORS why this is the best Plan for me, and then stick with it for the next three to four years. If I don\’t, they won\’t financially support my rehabilitation. Oh yes, I also have to convince them that the Plan I have chosen is feasible with my disabilities, and will lead to a career that will make me independent of public welfare and social services. It\’s the meeting I have been stressing about for months, occasionally making me completely doubt all crumbs of my self-worth and leading me to consider rejoining the dank world of Porn — which at least judges me on something tangible, like my weight, and not something I feel is intangible and uncontrollable, like my (dis)abilities.

But as it turns out, my fears are to be stretched out ever further. A few hours ago, in the muddled hours of my narcoleptic hallucinogenic sleep, I was slightly awoken by a crashing noise; my mind worked it into my REM sleep by telling me I was flying in a helicopter over Byron Bay (Australia), but the helicopter was having engine trouble. We were crashing, and I had to figure out a way to save us — the formerly pseudo-sprog and myself, and the only way to save us was to let her drive the car (on the other side of the road, mind you) once we hit the ground, even though she\’s still a few months shy of her learner\’s permit. She successfully took the wheel, managed to drive us around the city a bit (which looked more like Williamsburg in Brooklyn, actually), when again the mauling metal-on-metal sound pierced my sleep. This time it translated into a bloody car wreck during an attempted merge (while going the wrong way) onto Route 212, except the roads looked like the highway outside of Pittsburgh right as it connects to Greenpoint, complete with funny stop sign at the side of the highway. So yes, in my dreams I heard the trouble outside, but blocked it out, much like I do in real life.

Finally, I got fed up with whatever was going on outdoors; tired of my dreams telling me someone was entering my apartment, because the noises were so close. I got out of bed and discovered there had been a car accident on my front lawn. It had knocked the cables clear off the side of my house, ripping the piping off the exterior wall (my living room is on the other side). Miraculously, I still have a land line, electricity, and DSL. The rest of the neighborhood, however, has no cable television. Not only that, but the wires are down across my front yard, down the middle of the road, and across the street. The police have stretched yellow \”do not cross\” tape over my driveway, the gate in my front yard\’s fence, and on the street. Traffic has been stopped for three hours. It is now the quietest outside I have ever heard it here. There\’s still only one cop car and two cops for the whole situ. My building\’s super turned up, had a look, and left. But no one from the cable company or the power company have come by. No cherry-pickers. The cables still lie in the middle of the road, indefinitely. The three bus lines that use this road can\’t get by. The fire engines from Old Takoma now have to be rerouted; haven\’t heard a single one since the accident, which is unusual. And of course, no cars. No one can get by. And I can\’t get my car out of the driveway.

So I won\’t be going to my meeting today, which is in another hour. As it has been for the past thirteen years, it looks as though my future has been delayed.

Boo fucking hoo.

EDIT 4:29pm: Except, also just as in my life, at the last possible moment, workers showed up and cleared my driveway and the south exit of my street, making it possible for me to leave with just enough time to make it to the meeting. So I went.