Read this and tell me if you think I’m completely demented. Maybe you can relate to it. I’m not sure—I don’t really know you that well.

You dream that life is a gigantic shoe store. It’s 10:48 on a Monday morning. You have heard that not many people go shopping for shoes on Monday morning, let alone at 10:48 on a Monday morning, so you decide it might be a good time to invest in a new pair.

What you have heard seems to be true. The shoe store is very dark and desolate. It’s also rather long—about 580 miles. After surveying all the different brands and styles for a few moments, you feel a presence behind you. It must be a salesperson. You turn around.

Well, you were on the right track. It’s several salespeople—hundreds. It all looks very intimidating, very aggressive. All the sales people are dressed in Civil War Union Army uniforms. They’re all running right at you. Some have swords raised, some carry rifles, some ride horses that are leaping over rows of $2.99 socks and burst through shoe displays, scattering sneakers to the stars. They’re all desperately trying to be the first to reach you. This place must pay by commission.

With swords raised, guns leveled, and horse breath weighing heavy upon you, they ask: “How may I help you? Do you know what you want, sir? What do you want!? Do you know what you’re looking for!? Don’t you know what you want!? What are you looking for, sir!? Do ya know, do ya know, do ya know?” (Apparently, Spike Lee directed this dream.)

“I don’t know,” you say. Then, a lady with 17 kids comes in and you’re quickly deserted.

You don’t know what the hell is going on, so you move on to another dream. This time, you’re at a 24-hour grocery store. You’re in the bakery aisle, where you’ve come to what you think is an amazing realization.

Isn’t alcohol glorious, you think to yourself. It’s like flour. There’s so many different things you can make with it, so many different ways to consume it. And the bakery aisle in this grocery store is like the bars. Whenever you feel the need to toss back a few, you can just belly up to the shelf and have as much as you want, provided you can pay for it … and you know exactly what you want.

Another dream cuts in. Or, at least you think it’s a dream. You’re at the bars. You’ve been ordering beer after beer and anything that’s flammable in between, for variety’s sake. In public, you paint yourself as a fun guy, but you don’t feel fun tonight. You hate the guy next to you. He’s got a funky accent and he’s getting all the girls.

A really cute girl says you should check the coat and come and dance with her. You tell her you just have to finish this one and you’ll be right there. She comes back. Bad timing. You just ordered another. You only need a few minutes, though.

Two drinks later, she comes back. She’s great, but she caught you in mid-glass. “You drink too much. You must be an alcoholic or something,” she says.

“You may be right,” you say. Later, you see her with a guy who you think you’re better than, but you’re busy across the bar giving the thousand-yard stare to absolutely nothing. You better shape up, you think. Here’s the bartender.

“What do you want? It’s last call. You had better decide.”