Is there such a thing as Adult-Onset Motor Dyslexia? Because I think I’ve got it. Lately it seems like there’s a crossed wire in my cortex that is turning every day into Opposite Day, at least as far as my hands are concerned. They seem to be diametrically opposed to my wishes.

This week I have pulled the following blunders:

• Kept a candy wrapper and thrown my keys into the trash
• Repeatedly switched to the wrong car key to start the car even though I had the correct one in my hand just a split-second before
• Poured myself a glass of milk, set it down on the counter next to a glass of old ice-melt water, then picked up the milk and pitched it into the sink
• Hung up on someone instead of hitting the hold button
• Typed my password in username fields, and vice versa

At this rate, they’ll be pulling a Dr. Strangelove routine any day now.

The first thing the cats did after they woke up this morning was to jump up on the bed and settle down for a nap. Their languid demeanor and slow, comfortable stretches were evocative of a sort of whole-body yawn, and flickers of regret for leaving the cozy confines of the covers briefly ran through my mind.

As the cats settled in for another long period of inaction, I thought about yawning- in particular, how contagious it is. You know the drill; someone next to you yawns and you can’t help but repeat it. While I didn’t see either cat yawn as it curled up for its snooze, they certainly do yawn voluminously when it suits them. But is a yawn transmissible between species? Maybe I should confine myself to bed today (regretfully ignoring the day’s chores) in order to observe the potential behavior firsthand.

Driving home in the dusk on a lonely country road, having abandoned the clogged freeway that is my normal route, I was suddenly gripped by the urge to just keep driving. No destination, no goal, other than to keep moving, to hear the tires sing over another mile of unfamiliar road, following the dotted line forever, just to see where it would take me.

I passed farmhouses and silent rail crossings, empty fields and misty canals. It was at once melancholy and hopeful; mundane, yet profound. Despite the curious sense of mysticism it aroused, I nonetheless slowly drifted out of my reverie and dead-reckoned my way back home, wondering exactly where I’d been.

Where does that road go?

For the past few months now, every morning I wake up to find edge of the bed’s fitted sheet pulled up, and my pillows lolling halfway out of their covers. I haven’t the foggiest idea what’s going on, other than I’m apparently spinning like a dervish in the middle of the night. The way everything is all bunched up, I’m surprised I don’t wake up dizzy. It’s weird; I wonder if it means anything.

I’m not entirely sure why, but I find it highly amusing that panzer.de is the website for a car dealership. There’s more than one way to conquer the world, I guess.

I got a haircut a few days ago—always a liberating experience—and the woman who cut it was competent, courteous, and made just the right amount of small talk to ameliorate the boredom without straying into mindless jabber. I was happy with the results. It was almost the perfect haircut. Almost.

Things were fine as she began shearing a month’s worth of shag from my dome, until she turned the chair around and set about clipping near my face. When she spoke, I had to suppress the urge to wince and recoil. Her breath was foul. It would be no hyperbole to use a familiar, if vulgar simile: it smelled like shit. I’m not kidding; the second whiff confirmed that the corrupt fumes wafting from her chops smelled exactly like dog droppings.

She was pleasant and proficient, so I gave her a respectable tip, flirting with the idea of saying something as I handed it over- but how does one broach a topic like that, especially with a stranger? I hadn’t really devoted any time to consider the idea, though the chances were good that even if I had, I’d still manage to blurt out something ridiculous or stutter unintelligibly, ruining any chance at subtlety. So I said nothing.

How does one go about such a potentially delicate, or even disastrous, social task? I’m guessing there’s really no foolproof way to approach it. If she’s still working by the time I need my next haircut, I’ll at least have had a month to think about it.