So sometimes you wake with a song in your head, right? And sometimes it’s Rilo Kiley, which is nice, and sometimes it’s Stevie Wonder, which is also good. And the last few days it’s been David Bowie and Queen on “Under Pressure,” which is very good, because that is the kind of song that makes you, the rest of the day, out of nowhere, while you’re simply walking down the street admiring the orangeyellow leaves on the pavement, start grinning broadly and singing the bit about giving love one more chance and about the people on the edge of the night and about how this is our last dance and this is ourselves.

And then sometimes there’s this morning, when I put the coffee on and realized that the line weaving its way through my head was: “My anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hon.”

(When I told Jason this as we were on our way to a talk at the Maison Française in the afternoon, he said: “You can do side bends or sit-ups, but please don’t lose that butt.”)

I’m not saying it was a bad way to wake up, it was just. . .unexpected.

But I do want to know what’s going on in my mind, exactly. Because the other morning I woke from this dream: I was cooking dinner for a bunch of friends, and I reached over to the shelf by the stove to get a pan. Next to the pan was a bowl of raw chicken, pink and tender. “That’s weird,” I thought, “why didn’t I keep this in the fridge?” But it looked fine and it smelled fine, so I figured, Eh, it’ll be okay. Still, I was wondering how long it’d been sitting there—and then I remembered I’d placed it on the shelf a year ago. But I kept poking at the meat, and it wasn’t rotting or anything, it was this beautiful chicken like I’d just picked it up at the market that morning. And then I realized, with emphasis and certainty and italics, that of course the meat was fine, because—hold on to your hats, people—it was the Body of Christ. And I cooked it with rice, and I served it up, and when I told everyone it was the Body of Christ, some of my friends said, “Gross,” and some of them said it was tasty.

Clearly my head is some sort of vast field with bunnies hopping about, where sometimes the bunnies are like the fluffy white ones currently in the window of the pet store on Ninth Street, the ones advertised in a handwritten sign stuck on the glass pane that reads “Bunnies! $19.99!”, and sometimes the bunnies are the one from Donnie Darko. Mmmurgh.