Last Night's Dream-z (Read this like its funny)
Picture a moat surrounding a very huge trash heap (consisting mostly of crushed cars and springless couches) on top of which rests a decomposing double-wide with barefoot children sitting on the moldy lattice-bound front "porch." Got it? Good.
I am standing on the opposite side of the moat from the trash heap. One of the children calls out to me. She must need help, for it appears something has fallen onto her leg, her brothers refuse assisstance. They laugh.
The laughs are deep and resonating, with a hint of some accent. The accent is unidentifyable due to distance. Damn. I was hoping to figure out where the hell I am. Accents can sometimes help with that whole location issue. Location, location, location.
I trudge onward into the water. Its warmth is putrid. I feel sick. But I must help the little girl. From half way across the moat she looks pink. Her brothers are blue. When they stand close to one another they are purple. My verb choice is not strong enough. Apologies.
I get across the moat, finally. Though after looking down at my feet to check for any mutations that may have occured during their murky tread, I raise my head to the abscence of children. All I see is a zebra striped shoe. And a quilt with AP US history embroidered onto it.
I walk up to the house and knock on the door. It is made out of an ironing board of unusual length and breadth. No answer. Damn. I feel sick. Like when you are about to meet with an old friend and you dont know what to say. That kind of sick. I wish I knew where the hell I was. This door dosnt work. Perhaps there is another?
I find a door on the back of the trailer. It is purple styrofoam. With a window in the middle framed by plaid curtains.
I hear a peculiar noise at knocking. A low rumble which morphs into a loud roar. It has an accent. From behind the plaid curtain peeped a pair of accusatory Blue-lensed John Lennon glasses. The door opens. And it is Rory.
I will understand if you never again venture to read my live journal. Its just that, well, it was such a strange dream it had to be written. This does not do it justice... guess you had to be there...
I am standing on the opposite side of the moat from the trash heap. One of the children calls out to me. She must need help, for it appears something has fallen onto her leg, her brothers refuse assisstance. They laugh.
The laughs are deep and resonating, with a hint of some accent. The accent is unidentifyable due to distance. Damn. I was hoping to figure out where the hell I am. Accents can sometimes help with that whole location issue. Location, location, location.
I trudge onward into the water. Its warmth is putrid. I feel sick. But I must help the little girl. From half way across the moat she looks pink. Her brothers are blue. When they stand close to one another they are purple. My verb choice is not strong enough. Apologies.
I get across the moat, finally. Though after looking down at my feet to check for any mutations that may have occured during their murky tread, I raise my head to the abscence of children. All I see is a zebra striped shoe. And a quilt with AP US history embroidered onto it.
I walk up to the house and knock on the door. It is made out of an ironing board of unusual length and breadth. No answer. Damn. I feel sick. Like when you are about to meet with an old friend and you dont know what to say. That kind of sick. I wish I knew where the hell I was. This door dosnt work. Perhaps there is another?
I find a door on the back of the trailer. It is purple styrofoam. With a window in the middle framed by plaid curtains.
I hear a peculiar noise at knocking. A low rumble which morphs into a loud roar. It has an accent. From behind the plaid curtain peeped a pair of accusatory Blue-lensed John Lennon glasses. The door opens. And it is Rory.
I will understand if you never again venture to read my live journal. Its just that, well, it was such a strange dream it had to be written. This does not do it justice... guess you had to be there...