The Christmas Blahs and other miscellaneous wanking

 

I had a dream with Lesa in it, but I just know I'm gonna forget whatever details there were on accounta I just woke up and went to start a new post and, wouldn'tcha know, I closed the browser window. This caused me to have to log back in, wasting untold minutes and also upsetting my mental state which is always just barely able to recall dreams after awakening. So now all I'll have is a couple of major details, and the rest will be lost to frustration.

So...I was in a little pond area near some apartments where I was staying, I guess. And I was fishing for the small bass that inhabited the pond, with some success. I'd hooked one and was attempting to show my cat, I guess, how to properly hook a fish. I began to realize that this pond was really tiny and decided to call it quits. 

I went up to the apartment, and, lo and behold, there was Lesa in the shower. I spied her outline behind the shower curtain, clothed (unfortunately). She was wearing some slinky little shorts and a bikini top at least, so, not all that disappointing. But mostly, I felt that leap in my heart of recognition that this was her. I'd found her.

I began to talk to her about who knows what, and we started catching up on whatever plans we had for the day. Unfortunately, that was about it for us in the dream. 

I next found myself outside of a building which was owned by Bill. William O. Helton, to be precise, my dead Uncle Bill. He wasn't present, but I had the sense of him being involved with this building, somehow. 

I picked up an aerosol can from off of a ledge on the outside of the building. I guess I intended to spray the inside of the swamp cooler on the roof to lube it, or some such beneficial action. The result, was not as intended. The can contained starter fluid, and that's just what it did. It started a fire the instant I sprayed it into the inlet. 

I grabbed a garden hose and fed it in to try and quench the flames. I only partially succeeded, though, and I could see that the core of the fire was unreachable with the hose and still glowing. I surveyed the apparent damage to the outside and it looked like the swamp cooler had been gutted by this fire. The paint was peeling and soot was coming out of the vents. This was the point at which I awoke. 

Now I'm awake on Christmas and only slightly disappointed with myself. In real life, here I sit, alone on a couch. I could go on and on about the loneliness I've been battling lately. 

But if I do that, I will have to be honest about the amount of attention I have actually been receiving from my friends, both living and departed. My LED isn't on at the moment, but it did come on recently in conjunction with some talks I was having with my psychic friend, Jeannette. So, that's two people in my life interacting with me and giving me reason to not feel lonely. 

Then, as if on rotating shifts, Lesa begins messaging me again in earnest, saying the things I longed to hear from her. Her dreams and hopes and emotions about us being together. Like there may be still a chance. 

I've had to muster all my restraint recently to just be patient, as it seemed she was growing distant, along with any hopes I'd had. Then a sudden flurry of messages brought me back from the brink of losing faith. Of course, I only stay sustained for a day or so before my insecurities and doubts start eroding the hope that is barely germinating.

I am experiencing a health crisis, and my sense of it is that I will either get past it or it will kill me in a relatively short time. It appears to be in my stomach, like an ulcer. But it also seems to be affecting my other organs, some of whose locations and functions I'm kind of fuzzy about. Gallbladder, pancreas, liver, kidneys, right lung, diaphragm, rib cage. It's all up for grabs. 

I went to the doctor for blood work. Fine again, as usual. I'm still waiting on the results of my H. Pylori test, but I may not find out til after the holidays. Ultrasound still scheduled for the 30th. Until then I'm dealing with a pain under my right rib cage that won't go away, but lessens somewhat depending on what I'm doing or after I've eaten. 

That's what makes me think it's a stomach ulcer, but perhaps in an advanced stage which has involved these other organs. Which makes me think of cancer or some other thing which will take me out in short order.

Thoughts, however, are not reality. I mean, they could be, but at this point it is all conjecture. The facts are what they are, and not all of everything is bad. Just my fluctuating gut pain and my increasingly decaying dental situation. That's a whole other area of "I don't wanna deal with it" that makes me put a chalk mark in the column of "why not just die." 

I have three invitations to Christmas dinner, but I may decline them on the basis of just not feeling up to it. My gut will tell me, I suppose when the time comes. For now, I wish I could get back to sleep, but I suppose it is too late in the morning to hope for that. And yet too cold for me to get up and get my day going.

Blah. Christmas. Blah. I am manufacturing my exterior positivity for those who I may or may not interact with on the internet, but I'm not feeling very spirited about it. Just dutifully not being a craphead. I'll try to be gracious and make people feel good, because that's what I'd want for myself. Someone to tell me nice things about myself and be thoughtful and considerate.

So, I missed a video call from my dad. It only rang once, and when I got there to answer, the message was that I was invited to a group chat, which my browser doesn't support. I was cooking breakfast at the time, and when I finished and got around to trying to call back, the party I was trying to reach was unreachable. 

So, ping and pong, Dad. That's probably what was hoped for anyway, I don't know. I wasn't expecting a warm fuzzy Christmas call really. We haven't had that kind of relationship since, well, you know, ever. And I don't suppose it is any more comfortable for him to reach out as it is for me. So, I  guess we can both say, "I tried, but you weren't there" and thereby ease our social responsibility consciences.

What if I just want to not be socially responsible for the moment? If I have to suffer the holidays alone, why do I have to pretend to be positive for people? Can't I just enjoy the perks of being not beholden to anyone, since no one is beating down my door to make me feel less lonely? I mean my literal door. 

If I count the internet, sure, I have friends, a favorite girl even, who tells me she loves me. But here I sit alone on Christmas, regardless, so pardon me if I don't have the joy joy joy joy down in my heart. I mean, it could be down there. Way down, locked up, bound and gagged, and it's not getting out any time soon.

I'm not gettin' a smartphone, Mom

 

I dreamed my own dear sweet mother was actively trying to persuade me how integral having a smartphone was to existence and how I absolutely needed to have one to function as a human being. 

I had my usual reservations and adamant reasons for refusing:

"I can't afford another monthly fee. Plus, I would become another person with their phone 4 inches from their face at all times. I've lived this long without one, I can do it indefinitely."

She tried to show me how everyone was using them to pay for things and how convenient, no, how essential it was to be able to do that. 

I told her that I guess when there was no other way to buy or sell, then I'd have to knuckle under, but not before. I wasn't craving to become a part of the phone generation in real life and still am not. 

Where is this all coming from? I obsess enough over Facebook without having a device on my person at all times with which I could feed my addiction.

My blinking LED, Sharon, has been on with me for the last few weeks on and off. I think she knows how lonely I am this holiday season and is trying her best to keep me from feeling depressed. Thank you, sweetie. 

I still wonder how she feels about Lesa, though. I use terms of endearment for her as well, and it feels like I'm being disloyal for doing that. Can't I have more than one love in my heart? You'll always be in my heart, Sharon, always! 

Don't be mad at me for having human needs! I'm never going to forget you. Please don't forget me, either. I love seeing that little blinking light. I love that you still come visit me. I miss having you here to talk to. No one else knew me like you, at the deepest level, better than I wanted to give you credit for.

I'm going to try to get more sleep. I'll see you there, hopefully, and you can tell me what you have been blinking on and off about? Deal?

Dammit

 

Ving Rhames was trying to tell me something last night and I don't remember what it was. Don't tell me I'm going to have to start journaling when I get up to pee in the middle of the night.

Dick maneuver

 

This is what happens when I don't write stuff down right away. I know I was dreaming last night. Somewhere in the dream, I was in a punk band and had the ability to summon up songs in an instant to suit my mood. 

Someone pulled what I would call a "dick maneuver," cutting me off in traffic or in a line for the chips and salsa, not really sure where. But lickety split, I wrote a song about it. Like to hear it? Here it goes:

Dick maneuver
Dick maneuver

Dog dreams

 

Not too thrilled about having to catalog this one, but, oh well, here goes. I was dreaming that I was able to perform a certain self-fulfilling act in a way that only dogs can. I guess if I'm honest, I've probably had this type of dream before. They are right up there with flying dreams on the pleasure scale. 

"Well, hello. Where have I been all my life? Why have I never tried this before?" 

But fortunately, or not, I wake up before things get completed. Ok, moving on.

Then I dreamed I was looking after some dogs for Red. I only had to watch them for a couple of hours and he was to pay me $900. I guess I did a fair enough job, though I did lose track of them for a few minutes and found them at a lady's apartment licking a baby's face. He paid me and extra hundred, for keeping the peace with the lady, I guess, making it an even thousand.

Somewhere down the road, I witnessed an act of disgusting cruelty which I will endeavor to describe accurately, though it is particularly gross. A gang of thugs were torturing a dog by fellating it in such a way as to inflate its genitals like a balloon. They filled with air almost to the point of bursting, which apparently was quite a lot, making them almost as big as the entire dog in size. 

I ran to the nearest police station, only to find I had mistaken a low rent bordello for the office. I was redirected by the aging, flip flop wearing madame, to a building across the street. We almost got our shoes mixed up in the exchange, but fortunately I noticed and got it straightened out before getting on my way. 

I don't know if I ever made it to the police station or not, but I flagged down someone and told them I needed to report a crime in progress.

There. I've been as faithful and accurate as possible with this dream journal. Do I get embarrassing honesty points for not scrubbing them of the queasy bits? 

Meanwhile, my LED has been on lately. I've convinced myself that this is Sharon trying to communicate with me. My psychic seemed to agree but couldn't pinpoint what exactly that was. 

She told me that Sharon does appear to her in images at times. The last time she was holding her hands and dancing around with her. Then, when we were discussing the LED, she appeared to be pulling the chain of an old-timey ceiling lamp.

She is always feisty with my friend, giving me the impression that this is not just a case of mistaken identity or a made up story. If she's still around in her own unique essence, then feisty it would be.

Perhaps just knowing that it is her is enough for the time being.

Good morning, Sharon! Nice to see you.

Bongo Creek

 

I dreamed my I met my friend Brian Murry, aka Bongo, at a creek with a heated sauna. It was integrated so that part was natural creek and part had clean, heated pool water. 

I opted to go in at the steps, kind of an intermediate temperature area, not too hot and not too cold. He decided to jump into the colder part. I was floating around on my back enjoying the placid water. 

For some reason we both were wearing eyeglasses. I looked for him after he dove in and caught a brief glimpse of him at the bottom of the river pool. He looked dead, but I think he was faking it. By the time I got alarmed, he was nowhere to be seen. 

I got out of the water and scouted upstream to see if his body had washed out somewhere. Nope. I went back down to the bridge as a roaming band of Asian gang members strolled by in the shallows. I thought the were going to claim the area as their territory, but they just kept going. 

I looked back at the underside of the creek where the bridge and the bank made a natural, cave-like shelter. Bongo was kicking back under it and feeling pleased with himself for having fooled me and eluded the gang members with his disappearing act. I made my way in his direction but that was about it.

Oh, damn. Now I'm also remembering a bit of the dream before that. My next door neighbor was having a smoky open pit barbecue during  some extremely dry and windy conditions. I was particularly worried so, called him up to chastise him and get him to put the thing out. I mean, why tempt fate on such a windy day? 

Elsewhere, in a different part of the dream, I was assisting a bunch of local law enforcement in trying to solve a murder case. Evidence was being collected, but not cataloged thoroughly, so I lent my critical eye to the hunt. 

I found a bag containing some band-aid wrappers and trace amounts of blood, along with a lone condom wrapper on the ground. I instructed them to save it all. 

"Someone got hurt here," I said, stating the obvious.

That's all the detail I can recollect. Not too cohesive of a storyline. But the fire weather barbecue part concerns me. I have had quite a number of these types of dreams about fires and some have been in advance of actual fire events. Perhaps I should take the warning to be vigilant and remember that only I can prevent forest fires.

My nine-year-old stalker

 

I dreamed I was being stalked by an obsessed nine-year-old who had an inappropriate crush on me. Everywhere I went this little rugrat would follow me. She somehow got into my hotel room, where she tried, in her wily little nine-year-old fashion, to put the moves on me. 

It was like having an overexcited puppy trying to jump on your lap. I couldn't be too mad, but I had to teach her the finer points of etiquette by brushing her attempts aside. 

Anyway, since the dream occurred earlier in the night, and I spent many more hours asleep, I don't recall much else. Just the facts, no embellishments.

The most powerful thing in the world (Facebook repost)

 

 

What is the most powerful thing in the world? The most powerful thing in the world is formless, invisible and intangible. It has no physical attributes, but it can summon all the powers of the universe to do its bidding. It can unleash the power of a thousand suns or comfort a crying baby. It can create beautiful music and give joy to millions or it can initiate policies that destroy life and cause innumerable tragedies. It has the potential to make you see the world as a heaven or a hell, to have a good day or a really bad day.

I'm talking, of course, about the power of a single thought. One thought might seem insignificant. You could ignore it, and nothing would happen. Maybe another one will come along. Maybe you'll get distracted and it will have no effect. But it's that one that takes root, that sticks in the human brain and gets to work like a virus, self-replicating exponentially, hijacking all of your perceptions, that is potentially the most dangerous. It can start an avalanche of other destructive thoughts, which, if believed and acted upon can turn a normal, everyday person into a serial killer. It can lead someone to discover a breakthrough in medicine or invent the world's most lethal bio-weapon.

Very powerful, indeed. But they have no power of their own. They rely upon the belief and actions of the humans in whose brains they become implanted. The power of choice and intention are our only defense against their potentially harmful effects. Look deeply at the beliefs you hold. They are made up of thoughts. Take them out, one by one and examine them. What makes you believe this thought or that one? Are they one hundred percent true? Is the whole structure built around one core thought which may, just possibly, be a fiction?

In trying to unravel the mess I'm in, the mess I get into daily, I find it all comes down to thoughts, intentions and decisions. What I believe determines to how I perceive the world, and how I perceive the world affects my actions and interactions with others. I can be a little ray of sunshine or royal pain in the ass. A blessing or a cosmic disaster. The things I say or do can also change how others perceive and experience certain things as the seeds of a single thought that I entertain find their way out into the world, into the fertile ground of other humans' consciousnesses. If you've read this far, it's too late. You've gotten a dose of the randomness that goes on inside my cranium.

I don't know if what I'm saying will be helpful to others or not, but it has helped me. Perhaps not everyone is as thought driven as I am. Some folks may be more intuitive or instinctual. But behind every action there is a thought, a basic operating parameter inputted by someone, somewhere. Who is doing your programming? Can you wrest the keyboard from their hands and take control? These are just questions. I don't have the answers. But I hope I can do my part by cleaning up my own faulty programming, do the weeding in my own backyard, so to speak, and then maybe I'll be of some use in helping to untangle our collective mess. Or at least help someone to have a better day.

In the meantime, my thought for the day: "Be Nice." Not too original, I know, but it's a keeper. My, aren't I preachy today?

 

 

Hillary at the salad bar

 

I dreamed I had a encounter with Hillary Clinton at a salad bar. She was wrangling with a pepper mill and asking me if she should run again or not. I advised her "not," but she looked like she needed more convincing. 

As much distaste as I had for her, I had to admire someone who won't take no for an answer. Kinda. And then again, not really. 

We continued eating the bland iceberg lettuce, and I had that moment where you realize it's a dream and you should ought to just wake up but don't really wanna, on account of it's still dark outside, and you figure there may still be some adventures you can suck out of this dream. Turns out there wasn't.

Then Facebook notified me, with its plucky little "ding," that someone, somewhere, had something to say to me, and I had to wake up to see what that was all about. A random vet recommendation on my community information page. I already made my choice yesterday, but people keep chiming in. Oh, well, I think I'm gonna try for some more shuteye.

Well, that worked. I dreamed that I was with Sharon again. Same bedroom. Same bedridden body. And what do you suppose was on her mind for our nocturnal reunion? You got. Sex. I had my usual reaction of amazement at her pluck. 

"You mean you still wanna do that, in your condition?" I said.

"You know it," she said, grinning determinedly.

I set about to get her into position, a job I'd previously dreaded because of the sheer logistical nightmare it presented. 

"But we don't have some of the accessories, like the slippery sheets. I gave them away," I protested. We decided to make do with what we had, and she wound up rolled over somehow.

Before all that I'd been lying next to her and recognizing the fact that here was Sharon, alive again, and that I should be grateful and give her a big hug. I wrapped my arms around her naked, sprawled out body and tried my best to treasure what was left of her warmth. 

I felt some detachment, like this was not as it should be, but I was determined not to make the same mistakes I'd made when she was alive, and I squeezed her even tighter. I suppose that's when she got the idea in her head that we should have sex, since I was there and she was there, already naked. Sure, makes sense.

Ultimate screaming match

 

I had the ultimate screaming match with my father last night in my dreams. It was everything I'd ever hoped it would be. Of course it was wasn't actually his face, but a representative character, Sgt. Carter from Gomer Pyle. But it was him, sure as fuck. He was all swagger and bluster, being the typical demeaning, in your face asshole that normally made people wither and accede to his demands. This time I'd had enough.

I don't know if it's from binge watching The Handmaid's Tale or what, that made me feel I needed to release a certain amount of "fuck the patriarchy" out of my belly, but it was in the midst of one of his condescending rants about nothing, and in the presence of Ivan Waxman, that I unleashed.

Face to face, inches apart, we were two uncaged tigers roaring into one another's energy fields. So intense! I felt like I said everything I'd ever wanted to say growing up in a few, short, shouted bursts. And it worked, kinda.

It happened after I uttered the words, "Why can't you just genuinely be nice for a change?"  Only it was with the drill sergeant's own authoritative tone, which made it a command, "You WILL stop being an asshole and finally, once and for all, JUST FUCKING BE NICE!" 

He deflated for a moment and took a different tack, like he was trying on a new tie to see how it would look on him. It had somehow, finally, pierced him, and he was putty for a second or two. 

I immediately felt the love for him that must have been laying dormant all these years start to well up. 

"Well, we can work on it. First, there's this...and that," I said, and we were having a conversation. 

But then I saw the cagey, sarcastic side creeping back in as he attempted to make light of the whole thing.

"Sure," he said, "And I can just be a little sweetheart ballerina for you and wear a little pink dress. Would you like that?"

I sensed it was going off the rails, but I kept my tone firm but loving and tried to make him see that it was for the best. People would like him more. The living situation would be tolerable. And there was really no alternative. I wasn't having any more of his shit and that was that. 

After that, I remember vaguely taking pictures of ocean waves with Ivan out of the picture window of the apartment we were sharing. Kind of a meaningless denouement, but the credits were needing to roll, as dreamtime was coming to a close.

Endless Scrolling -- Facebook Blues in Gminor (or is it F#?)

 

Endless scrolling, looking for what?
A connection?
A reflection?
Of something outside of myself to tell me the next thing?
Never quite arriving or landing on the jackpot,
Wasting precious hours untold.
Is someone having a bad day?
A mini-meltdown of their normally cool refrigerator persona?
I'm all over it, like Batman on some criminal.
Where's the fire?
Who needs CPR?
How may I be of assistance today?
No news today, just filler spots and ads.
The rented personality of the meme, reflecting the most apt non-personal status of self.
Or worse, the preachy political snipe or smug spiritual greeting card fluff.
I can't take it.
I give up searching for humans where clearly a bot could be shoveling out this drivel.
Oooh, a judgy thought--I'm sure there's a meme with which to zing me back, ready at the quiver,
To pierce me in my liver and tell me to give up my fight.
Give in.
Give up.
It's easier to accede.
Step in line.
Step into the queue.
Get your daily dose of validation for the low, low price of your own smug superiority.
And by your, I mean my.
And by superiority, I mean insecurity.
Easier to be fake and hide that unseemly, unregistered, not for public display personality of yours.
And by yours I mean, my.
So  just scroll on by.

Gold in them thar hills

 

I was dreaming of prospecting with my friend Bob on his property. We knew that the rocks on his land were rich with crystal and gold, so I picked up a hammer and started whacking away at some giant boulders. They were coming apart upon impact, and I was finding some pinkish mineral. Where there's that pink stuff, there's gold was my thinking. I kept whacking away and found some amazing crystals being loosely held in the compacted composite rock. 

 

It attracted Bob's attention, and he came over to get in on the action. I found a cache of this type of rocks under a boarded walkway. I was able to grab rocks from under it with ease, while Bob had to reach under blindly from the topside.

"Careful of black widows," I cautioned him half out of general concern, but half to slow him down, as I scooped up as many as I could before he could get to them. 

 

Sure enough, I did start seeing black widows after that. One of the little buggars came flying out straight for my face, causing me to brush myself frantically. I guess that evened things out, I thought, as Bob continued his slow, steady picking.

 

Anyway, we'd gathered enough crystals for the time being, and I began to discuss the statistical analysis of someone's love life with them. It was some girl whose face and name elude me. The only thing I remember vaguely is the stat "three out of five of my lovers..." 

 

Then the dream started to collapse like an inflatable circus tent. I was contemplating how I could stay in it, but reality was already making the structure unsustainable. So here I am, pocketful of nothing and a scant recollection of a conversation. Blah, blah, blah. Boring huh?

I could tell you about the real world, I guess. The past few days I've been having nice talks with my psychic friend, J. She's been a real comfort to me in the past, and also now, as I'm going through another one of my mini-health crises. It's nice to have people around to show concern when you are in a frightful situation. 

This time it's just another weird abdominal pain originating from the gallbladder area. It's been here for a while off and on, but it's gotten worse in the last couple of days. I was almost going to get checked out, but I talked to my mom, and she seemed to think I could wait. I wasn't at the threshold of pain that made a visit to urgent care imperative. 

Meanwhile, Lesa is is having her own issues, migraines or something that she is dealing with, so she's been a little quiet lately. Quiet is not in my wheelhouse, apparently, so I'm glad I have other people I can draw strength from by reaching out and chatting. Besides, it is unseemly to put all of that onto one person to bear. I can be a lot.

I listened to a tape that was recorded at a house party in 1982 in which I played for a punk band called Malicious Mischief. The tape was sent to me by Jeff Gross, the guy at whose house the party was held (and the guy who stole my guitar at said party).

Ha! I didn't let him forget that I knew that he knew that I knew that it was him, although it had gotten resolved years ago, with him returning the guitar sheepishly. No harm, no foul. I was just glad to get my hands on this tape which, although terrible, is a reminder of just how much fun you can have with a lot of innocent enthusiasm (and a shitload of beer). 

I digitized it and made it available on Facebook, but I'm guessing it won't be the most listened to recording of the year. It is 18 minutes of anarchy with a few crappy songs thrown in. But as bad as the sound quality and the playing were, I kinda like the vibe. Raw and edgy and full of "who gives a fuck."

Oh, and I forgot to mention, Sharon has been appearing to my psychic at random times during my chats with her. Perhaps, not too random. She seems to be expressing approval and sending me encouragement and love as I exhibit some tendencies toward evolving as a person. 

I've been trying to help J out of a funk that she's been in, utilizing my own experience with distorted thinking patterns. In trying to help her, I've been helping myself. I had the thought that maybe, just maybe, I could put the struggles I've been through to use in some way. Perhaps a job as a counselor or therapist of some sort. 

I need to find out what the minimal credentials are. I do have that minister's license from the universal life church that Sharon signed me up for online. So, legally, I can marry people, I guess. As long as I don't claim to provide any real psychological services, maybe I could use that cheesy new age angle and weasel my way into a career as a spiritual advisor. Ha! I'm just as lost as you, but I can give you comfort because I'm at peace with my existential angst.

Or I could go back to school and try to go about finding a legitimate career path in more conventional counseling. But I am loath to promote any party line sort of psychology. Maybe Cognitive Behavioral Therapy or Dialectic Behavioral Therapy, as it has evolved into these days. I'll need to educate myself enough in these subjects just to know if they are something that I could conscience promoting. At first glance, they have seemed to be helpful tools in unraveling the rat's nest of my own negative thinking. 

Meanwhile, back to surviving my stomach ailment...

Corn Woman

 

I was dreaming that I was in a grocery store checkout and I saw someone who looked familiar. It was one of those faces that you kind of recognize but aren't sure because it's been like 30 years or more. It was a woman I'd worked with in LA at Hondo Die Supply named Jeannie Nelson, aka Corn Woman. 

I saw her getting her groceries, and she left before I could say hello. I rushed out of the store and flagged her down just as she was starting to pull away.

"Jeannie, is that you? Corn Woman?" I shouted after her. She stopped the car and opened the door so I could get in. "I thought I recognized you, but I wasn't quite sure," I told her.

"I knew it was you, too," she told me, "but I didn't want to say anything, in case I was wrong."

She presented me with a McDonald's straw wrapper to commemorate our reunion. I was going to attempt to tie it around her finger, but she just laughed. I felt very close to her for some reason and attempted to lay my head on her chest. 

She wasn't altogether unreceptive, but I somehow got that it was less than appropriate, so I withdrew. We smiled at each other and made some kind of plans for keeping in touch, possibly a barbecue or some other family event.

The dubious moniker "Corn Woman" was given to her by my friend Eric Murry after I had described this woman's gruff demeanor to him with a story which included the following dialogue:

Me: "I'm hungry, I could eat anything."
Jeannie: "Could you eat the corn out of shit?"
Me:


There was more to the dream, leading up to the grocery store, but I'm having a tough time unwinding the thread that got me to that point. Something to do with another female and a shared living situation, but it's just not coming to me. 

Meanwhile, in the hear and now, I'm in a bit of physical pain, possibly my gallbladder or some other unruly internal organ in my right upper abdominal area. It's really putting a damper on my newfound positivity and ability to live my best and happiest life. All my same previous distrust and distaste for doctors and medical procedures still apply, but I'd like to not suffer or die just yet. Not when things are in such a hopeful place with Lesa.

Oh, what to do? If I start getting in any more pain, I'll be forced to go to the urgent care and get myself looked over. Tests and more tests. Possible outcomes and procedures or diagnosis that I don't relish giving myself over to. If I just let it play out, it may get worse. I may die unnecessarily. 

I've got to do something. It's really getting in the way of my living what's left of my life. The things I could enumerate on the subject are too plentiful to know where to even begin, but the point is, I'm living again. I have friends, a love interest, and things are looking positive for a change. And now, this little stab from life, as if to say, "Don't get too comfortable."

Home economics or gunnery 101?

 

I just woke up and it's still early, so maybe I'll go back and change my elective. I had the opportunity to take a class aboard a spyplane which was outfitted with some state of the art artillery but also had a nice mess kitchen on board. 

I was told that I'd be taking the weapons systems class, but at the last minute I was placed in the more fluffy home-ec section. I'd be using a whisk and scrambling eggs rather than sighting and targeting enemy bases from the flying classroom. 

I was a little bummed and wanted to dispute my placement, but after consideration, it seemed it might be for the best. I was not cut out for the war anyways, and they knew it. 

I'd previously been spending my time looking for rare jazz records instead of identifying the enemy spyplanes that were making a mockery of our ground team by displaying a rather gaudy light show on their undercarriage while flying over our school low and slow.

 Ok. Pee and back to sleep. It ain't over yet.