ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Clubbed to Death No bullshit, these are the dreams that I actually had last night as well as I can remember them: I'm standing in a bathroom at some outdoor venue talling the guys inside about a "Reality" video that I've been watching. In it, one of the crotchety old guys from "The Muppet Show" finds some muppet-poop and goes around putting it in everyone's face, Jackass-style. Then he pisses off this one hot-dog looking Muppet who actually says "Motherfucker!" and grabs a machete and slices up another one that looks just like him. Then I see a very angry man with a shotgun in a shack with a big, fat woman lying on the floor. He grows agitated and shoots her in the face, though I don't actually see the gore, just a suggestive shot of his upper body. He storms out. Now I'm back in the bathroom telling the guys these stories and I realize that they are all older, two-bit actors. People like Brian Cox and Ernest Borgnign. This one guy asks me if I know who he is. I say I do, and I actually did, but I couldn't remember his name. He suggest "Lacey" and I snap my fingers as if that will help me think. (If I recall, I was thinking along the lines of "Cagney and Lacey") He suggests further that his name might be "Tommy Lacey" but I disagree, knowing he's just fucking with me. Then he shows me his gun, a very shiny, large revolver, and tells me he plans to shoot the guy in the third stall as soon as he comes out. I panic at first but go on to talk more about the reality video. I'm telling funny stories involving trains and cattle and, I think, curious alien visitors (think "Cartman Gets an Anal Probe") and it distracts "Lacey" and the guy from the third stall slips away unnoticed. Now it's just me and "Lacey" and some guy that I know but don't recognize. "Lacey" sees that he's missed his opportunity and, rather than get mad, merely shrugs it off. He presses the gun into my hand and asks me to "get rid of this" only to pull it away and laugh. I offer to destroy the gun for him but he again laughs and then quotes the price of the piece. He leaves the bathroom and, at this point, I know we're at a roller disco. Now the dream changes gears and I'm at my house, where I live now, and my cell phone rings. It's Hastings, calling me at home to help a customer. I go downstairs to the computer that I have at the house that's hooked up to their network (which doesn't exist in reality). They transfer the customer who refers to me by name and says that Holly was helping them before-hand but she's a bitch so they asked for me instead. Keep in mind that I don't work at Hastings anymore and even when I did I never worked with a Holly. The computer that I'm using is the most archaic piece of crap ever. The keyboard is punch-style and there's a grid of lights just before the monitor. It looks like computers as they were portrayed in 70s Sci-Fi films. All the actual hardware aside from the keyboard is behind plexiglass. Along with other assorted junk lies a rolled up bill of American currency, the denomination of which I can't ascertain, just to the right of the light grid. My curiosity was driving me mad and I badly wanted that bill. I tried to help the customer as best as I could but with the ancient computer and the distracting money I found it quite difficult. Then my mother called me and I woke up. Have you ever heard the expression "I'd never join a club that would have me as a member"? That's the way I've been with women recently. They're cool and mysterious and full of potential when I first meet them, but as soon as they touch me, I don't want them. I see them as weak, diseased, confused; fucked in the head. Any woman that would stoop to the level of wanting to be with a guy like me has got to be bad news. On a latitudinal meter stick, I see myself at a 26c and woman that I'm looking for is at a 92c or something. And if she buys into my bullshit or invests any amount of interest in me then all I can see is her sliding down the ruler, burning her hands. Damaged. What else? Oh, I went and had my picture taken today. Don't quite know what to say about that. Got my karaoke fix last night, so I should be cool for the next couple of days. I'm a junkie with that shit. I sang Ill Nino's "What Comes Around" and U2's "One". It was a splendid good time. Afterwards I went to the Kettle, a 24-hour breakfast joint that I seldomly frequent. I went there in hopes of having a cup of coffee and getting some writing done since nobody knows me there and I can concentrate. I walk through the door and there were four smiling faces staring at me like I'd brought them golden geese. I just wanted to wash invisible. To walk back to the kitchen unseen and scramble my own eggs and eat them standing by the dumpster. I'm a diseased wreck and I'm glad I'm no friend of mine. I would get sick of listening to me whine. "I'm so alone; nobody loves me! Boo-hoo." Next day: "Why won't everybody just leave me alone; all the women I meet who desperately want to get inside me and understand me are stupid and detestable. Boo-hoo." Jesus, man; you're a fucking loser. Each day at work is like an exercise in Theatre of the Absurd. A: Is everything all right here? B: Mustard! or A: How about this weather, eh? B: My mother says it's the green ones. or A: Say, I like that tie. B: Fuckstick Assface! Why do I even bother? 3:51 p.m. - 2002-11-08 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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