In which The Whelk has another very detailed, melancholy dream This time about a job that doesn't exist, but may in the future....
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It started with me driving, which is odd cause I hate cars and never got a license. I was a Suicide Assistant. I didn't help people commit suicide ( they got shipped a package before I arrived) but it was my job to make sure the "client" had performed " the act" and to do "presentation" -cleaning the house, removing porn or sex toys, wiping parts of hard drives, making sure wills and testaments are in clearly marked, easy to find places, putting fresh flowers by the bed ( client had requested white lillies), either mailing the last letters the client has asked to be sent out or writing them for when the client just wrote " make sure so and so knows etc" . So I'm writing a letter on how the client won't be able to attend some meeting due to ...circumstances when I hear a rattle. It's the clinet's cat. I'm supposed to keep it sedated, comfortable, and away from the client room until the family or designated Finders appear, but it escaped the carrier I put it in and now it's somewhere in the house and I can't find it despite looking everywhere and undoing all the wonderful cleaning I just did and it's terrible and I'm going to get fired what if it finds the clients body or doesn't come back before the finders show up and and and....

And that's when I woke up thinking dear god brain why did you just write a T.C Boyle short story?