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stream of unconsciousness

stream of unconsciousness

Dreams about a tiny baby that latched itself onto my leg like a spiny sea creature, begging me not to leave it but I had to because I was searching for my sister who was strung out on drugs and trying to walk water. Woke groggy and crampy, hungover from too much Clear Cough last night, the dreams probably a remnant of mixing meds and watching Salton Sea. My head is pounding right now, a beat not unlike that of a recent Moby song, and I am fighting the urge to dance to the beat of a different headache. I am bloated and crabby and need some space and ironic that right now on the Spinner, Pantera is singing Five Minutes Alone, and though normally I would nod my head and say yea, five minutes alone, instead my Moby headache makes me want to smash Phil Anselmo's face with an ice pick. I try to calm myself down by looking out the window, maybe catch a few rays of the sunrise or a bird on a wire chirping at the moon that won't go away, but I just find myself looking out for planes and scuba divers and subway bombers and the image of Dick Cheney appears in the clouds, laughing at my paranoia, chortling at my fear. Excellent, he says, and he sounds like Mr. Burns and I think that at least he doesn't laugh like Nelson. Ha Ha! I drink another cup of coffee, washing the Paxil down, washing the Excedrin Migraine down with it and my stomach is probably saying what the fuck? that's not the breakfast of champions, but hey, I'm not much of a champion, am I? I'm not even Sam Champion, but I think that I might like to maybe win the war on idiocy if there ever was one, and then my teammates and I could stand on the steps of City Hall and sing We are the Champions, backed by Slayer and maybe Snoop Dogg will hang with us and sing a few verses and they give us the key to the city and we open the doors with it and let everyone in and kick some people out and we have a big party and make the city ours.

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. As if there were a right side.

Comments

Michele, I'm not that good at remembering my dreams, but even when I do, they have never been as freaky and disjointed as yours.

If dreams are reflections of your consciousness, it makes sense that my dreams are so mundane - so is my life. You, on the other hand, must live an incredibly exciting life to have such dreams.

I hope you're OK?!

If only my life were as exciting as my dreams. And then again, if only my dreams were as mundane as my life.

hey hey wot, you aint allowed to smash phil with an ice pick, thats just nasty, and hes such a sweet boy too. they way that candel light shines on his almost trucker like face, oh my, it just makes me wanna give him a BEARD.

PHILL WOULD KICK YOUR ASS,NUFF SAID,NAIL TO WOOD MISUNDERSTOOD AND VINNY IS REALLY KICK AS AS WELL