Last night, I did not have a third dream starring Ultragrrrl.
I went to bed looking forward to it; I thought maybe, in some way, my life had taken some sort of turn in the bend. Strangeways for a strange fellow. "The going never gets weird enough for me", said HST; and, in many respects, that holds true for me. The idea of connecting in some sort of way with a total stranger through mystic-dream ways appeals to me, intrigues me, gives me hope for a life beyond/parallel universe sort of shit. Where anything is possible and life imitates the movies you love.
Sorry, I am experimenting with combinations of vodka, soda water, and lemon juice tonight and, apparently my methods work true. I am experiencing (and you are suffering) a kind of Montaigne stream of conscious, a Kerouac "never edit, use no punctuation" spurt here as I type and as you read.
This post has completely gone off course, shit! I don't even remember the point. of. this. post. of this. life. This one with the most crap when one dies, wins! And that makes me sad. I have fallen for the lie and the lie has made me insanely sad and miserable. I forgot what makes me happy...beyond the booze and the smile of a pretty woman. Maybe that's what life boils down to: an intoxicated feeling and the happiness of a lover. Nah, too simple.
Fucking booze: good-night! Shrink tomorrow.