Besides from suffering from Acute Vaginal Depression, Morry is spending way too much time at strip clubs. My brother saw him at the Pink Monkey and subsequently found out that all of the strippers know his name. Not good. Strippers should not know customers names, just like we don’t need to know their names.
It only sets you up for trouble. Trust me. The last thing you want is to move into the same building as one that knows your name. Then, after a few months, your new girlfriend gets jealous of the hot chick downstairs and doesn’t like you talking to her, even though she (GF) doesn’t have a clue that she’s (hot chick) a stripper. Then a couple of months later she unknowingly joins the same gym that the stripper belongs to, then GF finds out that the hot chick is a stripper (at the same club where she, GF, fucked you in a private room on your birthday) from all of the other fucking hags. Then, she turns into the ice queen and only opens her legs to put her pants on. Then, when your lease is about to end, she tells you that you have to move. Then she… wait a minute, sorry about that.
It’s like I said, it only sets you up for trouble.
I had just left her sitting on the couch listening to the music. The couch was on the street corner down the street from her house, well, her parents house. Crazy dreams. We were about 18-20 I guess. She was a cross of two ex-girlfriends. Part high school girlfriend and part recent girlfriend.
She was laughing and I left her there, with her thinking I was coming back. It was something about her reaction to something else that was the last straw. So I walked away. I think I knew that her parents were not home. yeah, thinking about it now I knew they were out of town. When I walked in the back door (i left my keys on the dining room table earlier) everything seemed fine except for that feeling of being in someone elses house at a strange hour. Especially when her parents werent there. Like it was still ok but not a hundred percent.
I walked into the dining room and immediately noticed the dining table, chairs, china, flatware were gone. The room was empty except for the phone. It was on the floor, off the hook and unpluged from the wall. For some reason, I thought the burglars might still be in the house. My heart was racing as I squated down to plug in the phone to call the cops. I saw a man walking up to the house, so I stood up and walked quickly to the back door. I was turning the doorknob on the back door as he was turning the knob on the front door. I had kept my eye on him the entire time, from when I first saw him to just as I opened the back door. As I turned to step out of the house, another man was already standing there.
I could only see his outline because the moon was directly behnd him. Then he leaned in to “get me” and I saw a terrible face. I couldnt move. No punch, kick or headbutt. Nothing, I couldn’t even scream. Then he took a step forward and my only defense was to bite his face. Once my teeth were sank into his cheek I let out a little girl shreek, and I woke up yelling. That was ten minuts ago.
UPDATE: This was written a few minutes after waking up. Really just enough time to boot up the ‘ol 6400. My closest friends have always wanted me to put my funky-ass dreams on paper, but I’m afraid I might be committed. This dream isn’t squat compared to others, especially my re-occurring dreams. I’ll include them on the blog if I get a few readers to tell me they want to read them. Let me know what you think.
I will be standing on the corner of Armitage and Racine tonight from 10:25 pm – 10:30 pm. Please do not approach me.
Don’t say anything about the obvious sexual tension you sense between you and your interviewer. It may not be as mutual as you think. Really. If you’re that type of person who routinely mis-reads other people’s politeness or intentions, you may want to rub one or two off before you leave the house for an interview.