***I DREAM OF WEIRD SHIT***
I say all the time that dreams are a rich source of creative
fuel. They’re like Vitamin B12 for the schizophrenic mind (trust me, this is
real science; look it up). Last night’s visit to the subconscious theater was
one that qualified as cinematic wizardry. Or a psychotic cluster fuck, one of
those two. Either way, I’m going to harvest as much creative fuel as I can from
this once in a lifetime acid trip. Here’s how the dream went:
I started the dream by opening a newspaper and reading about
male-to-female transgender MMA fighter Fallon Fox confronting Ronda Rousey at
one of her press conferences…wielding a crossbow. That’s right, folks. A
crossbow. Not a shotgun. Not an AK-47. A crossbow. Nobody around me was asking
why Fallon Fox was holding a crossbow. They wondered what kind it was and how
many rounds it could carry. This was the one instance where it was okay to
complain about unfair advantages in a one-on-one situation. A crossbow, for
shit’s sake!
I put down the newspaper and get to work at my family-owned
toy store. My occupational dreams have come true; I get to work with toys! I
was setting up various Bionicle figures on the display table and even playing
with some of them. My videogame playing brother signed a package for a shipment
of Double Dragon games…for the PS4. A beat-‘em-up side-scroller from the 1980’s
is now on Playstation 4. Where the fuck have Jimmy and Billy Lee been this
whole time?! I missed those guys!
And then I actually start to play a copy of the game. Seeing
as how it’s on the newest generation of videogame consoles, the game is ten
times harder than its Regular Nintendo predecessors. The first level is a ski
resort crawling with anthropomorphic wolves carrying big fucking swords. The
creatures themselves aren’t so scary. It was when they grabbed Billy Lee and
bashed him over the head several times with the handles of their blades that I
decided to lower the difficulty and try again.
The ski resort level was the same, but this time I was
fighting baby dolls with milk bottles. The same health bar-draining beatdown
happens all over again. The dolls force feed me sleep-inducing milk while the
other dolls punch and kick me while I’m down. I throw the control and say, “I
don’t want to play anymore!”
I couldn’t play the videogame any further anyways, because
it was time for me to clock out from the toy store and spends some time with my
babysitter. This thirty-year-old man actually has a babysitter! And that
babysitter has some cute daughters who are about my age. I tell everybody how
beautiful they are and they get creeped out.
Instead of talking about beauty, we watch a TV show about
aliens disguised as people roaming the earth and preparing it for an invasion.
For the main character, we have a bald guy in a trench coat and a hat with his
face concealed as he goes around ratting on these aliens to the authorities.
Every time he successfully squeals on an alien, he gets a new identity under
the Witness Protection Program and continues roaming the earth to do his
detective work. He one time ratted out an entire restaurant because the aliens
were making racist jokes about Europeans. Aliens getting accused of xenophobia:
the irony could not be clearer.
After the end credits rolled, the closing logo featured a
guy getting hit by a car and flying through the air, getting hit by another car
and flying through the air, getting hit by a train and flying through the air
again, and then getting his nose chopped off by a helicopter’s propellers. In
the words of the pilot, “That’s one dead motherfucker!” For some reason, I
thought that closing logo was the most hilarious thing I’ve ever seen.
I woke up this afternoon at about two o’clock and I didn’t
want to do anything for the rest of the day. I was so exhausted from ongoing
sleep apnea issues that writing was impossible until now. I also didn’t feel
like watching WWE NXT or Smackdown this evening, instead electing to watch the
NXT Takeover special in Dallas
tomorrow night and Wrestlemania 32 on Sunday.
Losing an entire day of potential work to sleep apnea is
something that has plagued me throughout my whole career. Some days I’d have
energy, some days I didn’t. Today was the latter and I felt awful about it. Not
to worry, because I finally scheduled a sleep study which will take place on
June 8th, five days after my 31st birthday and three days
before seeing Slipknot and Marilyn Manson in Auburn. Chances are good I will
need an oxygen mask, which I won’t mind as long as it gives me the energy I
need in my day-to-day routine.
As of now, I have a short story to write for the WSS and a
chapter to edit the hell out of in Occupy Wrestling. Those things don’t just
write themselves. At least now I have some funky creative fuel to power me
through my short stories. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***JOKE OF THE DAY***
Q: What do you call it when the
voices in your head laugh at you for having dirty underwear?
A: Skids-ophrenia.
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