Having woken up early this morning, working on those haikus, it felt strange to be driving into DC at noon, my body clock insisting that no, it had to be later in the day than that. I’m just not used to waking up early – it felt like it should have been three o’clock at the very least.

I drove along the Dulles Toll Road, whipped onto the Capital Beltway, making my way toward Walter Reed Army Medical Center. I was looking forward to a half hour full of being poked and prodded by my acupuncturist, Doctor Dahl (no relation to Roald – I asked.) I haven’t seen him since March, before I went to England. He’s such a popular fellow that it’s practically impossible to get an appointment with him. But he squeezed me in today, for which I am very grateful. Although, I have to keep reminding myself to be grateful, because as of right now, I really, really hurt. Over twelve hours later and I still hurt.

So what did he do to me that caused such pain? And why am I happy about this? Frankly, I was stupid enough to ask for it. It wasn’t the usual acupuncture that got me – the needles in my feet, legs, stomach, neck, face, and head – but rather, a special treatment for my shoulders. You see, I have a rather obnoxious set of shoulder muscles that constantly tighten up for no good reason whatsoever. I told the Doc that I was having problems with them again, thinking he’d numb them like he did last time. It’s a shame, really, that I forgot about the other treatment he liked to try from time to time. Whoops.

He very cheerily got out a few extra acupuncture needles after the inital treatment, had me sit up, then proceeded to poke my shoulders with his fingers until he found a sore spot. Then he jabbed me with the needle repeatedly, making my whole body cringe, my fists tightening, pressing my lips together as tightly as I could to avoid making rather funny “ow” noises. Supposedly this is supposed to wake up the nerves and get them to let up a little, but as of right now, it just feels like I’ve had a very extensive work out. Fun, huh?

Afterward I was quite dizzy and it hurt to move my arms, so I was grateful that I had a bit of a wait to pick up some more pain medication – I wasn’t quite ready for the long drive home. I made faces at a cute little toddler who was playing happily with his Mother’s drivers license, and I talked to a nice Infantryman who was sitting beside me. About half an hour later, I had my pain pills, I could move my arms, and I was ready to tackle the beltway once more.

It took me ages to get home – stupid traffic – but once I got home, as tired as I was, I was met with some news that put me on an instant sugar-like high. Something had arrived in the mail. Something wonderful. Something that was very white, very envelope-shaped, and very thick. And it was from the IRS.

I quickly peeled it open and held my breath as I unfolded the letter. I was nervous that perhaps the IRS had written to me yet again, asking me for even more information, just as they’ve been doing for the past six or seven months. Just the thought of answering more questions was spine-tingling (or was that the acupuncture…) But, thankfully my worries were soon put to rest. How? I’ll tell you.

It’s official: I rule! My baby, my project of four years, is now officially a 501(c)3 non-profit charity!! It took an entire year of work from start to finish to get to where I am today, and can you believe it? I’m official! The Daily Prophet is now part of the brand new Prophet Incorporated, and I can now accept tax deductible donations! How cool is that?! I wonder who my first donor will be…

So yeah, that made me happy. Of course, just then I realized that I had to fulfill a promise to myself – a year ago, I said that I would go out and get root beer and ozzie rolls the night I found out, to celebrate (of course, where else would I go?) Nobody else in my family could go with me, but thankfully Mike was able to go out with me so I didn’t have to celebrate all alone. So hooray for Mike!

After a lovely meal of ozzies, cheeseburgers, and even a lovely chocolate waffle, we went to see “Dodgeball.” No comment on the movie, except to say, I’ve totally lost whatever respect I once had for Ben Stiller. All gone, zip, nada, nothing left.

So now it’s just past four in the morning. Why am I still up? Well. I don’t really feel like sleeping. I’ve been having strange and rather disturbing dreams again, but this time they’re worse than normal. Not because they’re gorey, or because they’re weird, like that one night last week where I was a female version of Van Helsing (and I haven’t even seen the movie, for goodness sake.) No, these are frightening in a much more real sense – like last night, I dreamt very vividly that I was on the third floor of a building, when suddenly there was an explosion. The ceiling caved in around me and I was trapped for what felt like hours. To my left, I could hear someone else who was trapped. We talked, trying to figure a way out. But after a while, we just kind of gave up. Knowing there was no way out, we started talking about death, terrorism, and the sadness that revolves around both topics. That was my dream, all night – a conversation surrounded by shredded concrete and steel, various explosions going off in the distance. Charming, huh? You know what’s worse? When I was leaving Doctor Dahl’s office this afternoon, walking down the corridor, I realized that the hospital looked remarkably like what was in my dream. What’s worse was the fact that I was on the third floor. I didn’t exactly take my time walking to the elevators.

I’m kind of afraid of what my subconscious will come up with tonight. But I’m going to keep on thinking happy thoughts of 501(c)3-dom, donations, charity work, and making little kiddies happy. Hopefully that will stem any additional dreams of ickiness. With any luck I’ll spend the night frolicking around some Scottish hillside, picking wild bunches of heather and creating lovely wreaths for my hair, while bagpipes play softly in the distance. Hey, who knows, maybe Gene Kelly will even join me for a dance and a quick song, a la Brigadoon. I think I could handle Vincente Minnelli weirdness, if there was a musical number involved. One can only hope. 🙂