Stand behind the shooter when watching target practice

Someone was doing some target practice in my driveway. I was wanting to get a good view of the targets as they were being hit, so I opted to sit only a few feet from them. There is not any good reason to be in front of the shooter in this kind of situation, but I discovered one reason not to. Besides the obvious one, where the slightest deviation in aim on the part of the shooter could make you the target, ricochets are a bitch when you are that close to where a bullet strikes. Even the debris from bullets striking rocks can be injurious. One bullet pinged off of the gatepost and went whizzing close to my head. 

Whiskey was also walking down the driveway, directly in the path of the bullets, oblivious. I had to call him to get him to get him to the relative safety of the periphery. It seems there was more to do with Whiskey in this dream, prior to the driveway shooting, but I'm struggling to remember right now.

I deactivated Facebook...again. Yesterday was New Year's Day, the one year anniversary of Whiskey's death. It came up in my memories as a reminder of what a crappy dog owner I was. In addition to this kind of torture, I just have been struggling to endure people's posting of their various activities. I'm got tired of liking things out of obligation. I got tired of being reminded of the things I don't have, as in social activities involving other human beings. 

I have been as nice as possible, faking politeness, refraining from posting my problems and only projecting the nice, serene, sagely image that people wish to see. The people that like me don't know me, and the people who know me don't really like me. They pity me. They like the version of me that I have to pump up with platitudes every day, like one pumps up a leaky bicycle tire. Well, I'm tired of pumping. And it's all hot air, anyway. 

People who need to contact me always know how to do that. I can do without scrolling through pictures of everyone having fun for a while. Sound bitter? Of course, I'm bitter! Bitter is what happens to people like me. 

Anyway, who am I explaining this to? I'm the only one reading this godawful blog. Even my Russian bots have abandoned me, since I am neither useful, nor entertaining. They got excited for a moment when they thought that my neighbor Stan might have an actual helicopter. That post got the most views I'd ever seen, outside of my own before I learned how to turn off my own pageviews. 

When human agents got involved, they must have scanned through it and determined that this was a dream journal, and nothing I say has the slightest relevance. The bones have been picked clean and they have moved on. Yes, I'm too depressed to be radicalized, sorry. 

I need to start my day. It's Saturday, but somehow that doesn't sound all that exciting at the moment. I cleaned my coffee pot with vinegar last night in preparation. But right now I can't even muster up a twitch of actual interest in doing whatever activities I'm going to do on this gray, lonely miserable day, the second of January, 2021. 

Oh, and I finished the tin of cookies last night, so there's no more of that to look forward to. Sugar is a slippery serpent, and I got bit. But my policy of not buying junk food will prevent me from having any more until someone slips candy in my mailbox again, perhaps next Christmas. Or never.