Wasted dream, shared spaces and I've had a pretty cool year

I'm a little annoyed at my subconscious this morning. A more futile feeling doesn't exist. It's just that if one has to pee in the middle of the night, one's subconscious works that into the dream one is in the middle of and I'm ok with this as long as it could limit itself to just a hint. Like, say you are dreaming it is the 90s again and you are young and dewy eyed again and the college campus where you truly grew up was unchanged and you were walking around seeing familiar sights and loving the gift of time travel that only a sleeping brain can conjure and suddenly you pass a bathroom and the dream you says "I'll just pop in here for a sec but don't go anywhere because I will be RIGHT back." And then the you that lives in on this plane of existence could stay sleeping and effectively find the toilet and not lose the momentum of your dream, then FINE. I would be totally fine with that. But brain, and I truly mean this, don't waste an ENTIRE dream on the search for a bathroom, the locating of that bathroom and then the inability to use that bathroom for a variety of reasons because that's just going to put me in a bad humor the rest of my morning. Like, I could have ridden a unicorn while having sex and eating ice cream. Just bookmark that for later, mkay?

I have the day off from my full time job because I'm working Saturday, for a change. In recent weeks I've been coming to Manhattan to take advantage of a writing space that my friend Nancy told me about. It is in an ancient building in Union Square nestled above a bartending school, at the top of approximately 7,000 stairs. There is a silent space, overflowing with ergonomics and flat surfaces and a decided lack of distractions (the internet notwithstanding) and it is very conducive to concentration. There is a kitchen with a fridge and a kettle and toaster oven and a dishwasher. There is free coffee and tea and little lotions in the bathroom. I am grateful for this space. I have gotten a lot of writing done here and a lot of work for my many, many jobs here as well. However, because it is a shared space, there are minor issues that make me understand why we can't all just get along. Some people never learned how much space they occupy nor how to adjust that space to accommodate anyone else, either physically or in their actions. For example, somewhere in this room there is a man who slams what I envision are meaty sausage fingers doing what I can only assume is this:

...only nowhere near as charming as Ron Swanson. And there is only one restroom. For quite a lot of people. Yet I still dare to expect that the seat will be lowered after a gentleman uses it. Or the pee will be wiped from the surface of the toilet seat after a gentlewoman uses it. I've always suspected my expectations are too high. Also, people walk heavily. Now, unless you are in possession of a titanium appendage on either leg, this is something you can control, yes? The pressure at which you walk is not set in stone; it changeth like the moon's face. Again, I could be reaching for the stars here, but is it possible that, when walking through an ancient, creaky building, in a room that is specifically set aside for silence and concentration, you could, I don't know, walk lightly. Or at least not practice goosesteps in the name of your forthcoming WWII novel. 

Still, I feel a bit douchey complaining about such things. I did just go into the kitchen to find free bagels. Also, I'm literally sitting in the same room as the actor who played Roger Sterling on Mad Men. He just held the door open for me and smiled and I'm sorry, but this is the coolest fucking thing to happen to me this year and this is the same year I lived in NYC again, rode a bike for the first time, met Gloria Steinem, got pulled into a secret room at Sleep No More, got a tattoo and went to Amsterdam. 

I just reread my last paragraph and if I ever complain about anything for the rest of the year, you have permission to tell me to shut up.