Fish and Tits
A few nights ago, I had a vivid dream. I awoke at about 5 a.m. after having it and thought it was totally brilliant and wrote down what had happened in the dark. In the morning I awoke, read what I had written, and realized I'm autistic. Here's an excerpt...
"Me and some girl saw a bus zigzagging through the river bed in the rain. I was a very rainy day.
We decided to go to an amusement park, because we were supposed to go kayaking with her friends, but it was too rainy. We were on a ride like the galleon at Adventureland, but it went all the way upside-down, and there were no seatbelts. Rachael from Jesus Camp was on it. I was reading an info pamphlet about the ride that told all the times people had puked on the ride. It said that on this very day a baby vommited on the ride. Just as I read it, the baby in front of me threw up, and it got on my sleeve. Across from us was James Vanderbeek. We saw him later that day, and I thought his name was James Van der Waals. I told him that last time I was in Chicago I saw Sarah Silverman more than once. He told me he just came to ride a few rides. Because he was a member of AAA, he could get in for a discount. I told him I too was a member and was disappointed I'd forgotten to use my discount."
That's some pretty exciting stuff.
Last Friday, I went to Dockside, a 'fried-themed' restaurant, with Hiram and the gang. I couldn't understand a word anyone said, because they all had big accents. Then, we went to Aaron's Hunter S. Thompson party. Aaron was wearing aviators and babbling; I drank a 40 of Miller High Life. Mmm.
Last Saturday, I did drugs and watched Half Baked. It was so damn literal. The highlight of my life was calling my roommate's boyfriend to ask how to make a bong out of an apple.
Every morning at about 9 a.m., my roommate and I are awoken by the sound of either leaf-blowers or a vacuum, often both. The leaf blowers are completely unnecessary, because there are no leaf-bearing trees in our complex, let alone enough to warrant blowing them around three times per week. There are sundry things these men could do that would be more useful than blowing a stream of air at more air, such as baking scones or fixing the damn gate. The vacuum comes from upstairs, and we hear it every day almost without exception. Riss and I imagined that it was an obsessive-compulsive single mother with one toddler (we hear toddler sounds sometimes too). Our suspicions were confirmed recently when we saw a crazed-looking woman and her small child coming down the stairs while counting maniacally. How sad is it when your life revolves around vacuuming your postage-stamp apartment? Pretty sad.
"Me and some girl saw a bus zigzagging through the river bed in the rain. I was a very rainy day.
We decided to go to an amusement park, because we were supposed to go kayaking with her friends, but it was too rainy. We were on a ride like the galleon at Adventureland, but it went all the way upside-down, and there were no seatbelts. Rachael from Jesus Camp was on it. I was reading an info pamphlet about the ride that told all the times people had puked on the ride. It said that on this very day a baby vommited on the ride. Just as I read it, the baby in front of me threw up, and it got on my sleeve. Across from us was James Vanderbeek. We saw him later that day, and I thought his name was James Van der Waals. I told him that last time I was in Chicago I saw Sarah Silverman more than once. He told me he just came to ride a few rides. Because he was a member of AAA, he could get in for a discount. I told him I too was a member and was disappointed I'd forgotten to use my discount."
That's some pretty exciting stuff.
Last Friday, I went to Dockside, a 'fried-themed' restaurant, with Hiram and the gang. I couldn't understand a word anyone said, because they all had big accents. Then, we went to Aaron's Hunter S. Thompson party. Aaron was wearing aviators and babbling; I drank a 40 of Miller High Life. Mmm.
Last Saturday, I did drugs and watched Half Baked. It was so damn literal. The highlight of my life was calling my roommate's boyfriend to ask how to make a bong out of an apple.
Every morning at about 9 a.m., my roommate and I are awoken by the sound of either leaf-blowers or a vacuum, often both. The leaf blowers are completely unnecessary, because there are no leaf-bearing trees in our complex, let alone enough to warrant blowing them around three times per week. There are sundry things these men could do that would be more useful than blowing a stream of air at more air, such as baking scones or fixing the damn gate. The vacuum comes from upstairs, and we hear it every day almost without exception. Riss and I imagined that it was an obsessive-compulsive single mother with one toddler (we hear toddler sounds sometimes too). Our suspicions were confirmed recently when we saw a crazed-looking woman and her small child coming down the stairs while counting maniacally. How sad is it when your life revolves around vacuuming your postage-stamp apartment? Pretty sad.