Joining the Crew

AN ATTEMPT TO PIECE TOGETHER THE PLOTLINE OF LAST NIGHT'S DREAM

  I am about to set sail.  We're heading to the West Indies.  I believe these will be reocurring posts.  My dreams have become more and more erratic lately, and ever since I was "at" my 20-year high school reunion riding an automatic bull while eating French fries, dismayed by the terminal children watching through their windows from the second story, talking to my 7th grade teacher trying to have a serious conversation, but not wanting to look like a suck-up, I decided that I shall start recording my dreams.  Our goal is lucid dreaming, I believe.  A universe our mind creates.  We stumble our way through, always, but learning how to control how you feel when trapped in the inevitable hallucination of our horrible id, we must sit, be quiet, and listen.  When I Met the Walrus, he said it's all about peace, man.  Libya?  Revolution's going to end terribly: tens of thousands dead, and for what?  Back to you, Thomas ...

  "I'm selling it all to buy it all.  I just made two stacks of all the videogames I've ever played: one, games I want to keep; the other, games I am going to attempt to sell.  I wish I knew which method got a playa more cash.  Should I sell them on eBay or Amazon?  Take pictures of them all, then put them in arbitrary groups of three to sell, in order to trick the buyer.  Soliciting, that's what it is.  Final Fantasies 6, 7, 8, 9, and 12 would never be in that second stack, though!"

  "Well, hey, I would go with eBay! Wonderful, Tom, I hope you have a great day / Was what I was trying to say / When she cut me this / and she cut me that / she gonna gonna cut me cut me / F'ar her alimony check / big wuh-zhaaa!  kee-poahw jdf!~

  I'm going to travel around the world.  I want to join the Peace Corps.  hahhh, I just want to help people, but what a cliché thing to say.  "Clichés aren't real," Tom piped up.  "Men shower in a stall in prison, and there's a guard at each stall.  It's just bullshit when people joke around about that."
  "Jesus, Tom, it was just a joke.  You can't focus on that life anymore!  You know, Shakespeare said--"
  "I don't give a FUCK what Shakespeare said, Pat!  God dammit!  Get the hell over here before I throw something at your face!  It'll be lethal and you sure as hell know it!  Where are my pornos?!  WHERE ARE THE GODDAMN PORNOS?!?!"
  The lights went out.  Pat knew this was his chance.  He crossed his arms downward across his chest to grab the polyester cloth and pull it upward, his head through its convenient(ly-sized) hole.  He unbuttoned the slacks he bought earlier in the day, let them fall lightly ... and ran.  He was trying to ram into Tom, to take out some anger about being trapped in an abusive relationship, alpha vs. beta.  He knew he would never win, though; he ain't a tough fucker.  And when the lights came back on, they were already done.  Tom didn't need the light to force Pat, to submit him.
  After staring him straight in the eyes for several minutes, Pat secretly terrified, but physically stoic, Tom stormed off, turned the storm off, put on his white noise headphones, melted away into the ether pasture.  He OD'd that night.  Pat tried CPR, but never paid attention when they taught him in school.  What a relief that it had chosen him this way.  It was only fate.  It was only destiny.  The thing that upset Pat the most was how little he cared that his long-time lover had died.  'Who will hit me now?"
  Pat was also worried about the private insvestigators that were sure to come ringing now to next Thursday, so he booked it out of town on a bus with a bottle of orange vodka in a backpack.  $500, Jacksonville ... just don't cross the state line and don't buy from blind dealers.  They sure as hell DO know how to aim a gun ... Jesus Christ ...