26
by Charlie D_Archive
Last week, I dreamt that I was back on my parents' farm. I went into the barn for some reason, and was attacked by an abnormally large, tailless opossum. As I ran from it, out into the yard, I found that I kept stepping in aborted opossum fetuses. The mama (at least I'm assuming that it was the mama) followed me through each pile, getting covered in the blood in the process until I was on my parents' front porch and the opossum was completely red. It stopped, looked away from me, and began screeching at the sky.
While it was distracted, I bound into the house, only to find I was in my current bedroom. Greg Kinnear (I have absolutely no fucking idea what he was doing there) was sitting on my floor, drinking a beer, and going through my record collection. Everytime he stumbled upon records I hate (embarassing to own, the record shops won't even take them for trade-in, stuck with for life, or at least until I need coasters), he would pick it up and say "Oh, man, this is a great album". Ofcourse, I would say "What the fuck are you talking about?", whereupon he would hand me the record, and as soon as it touched my hand it would turn into some rare, out of print looking jazz or R&B record.
I woke up, looked a my alarm clock (about 20 minutes early) and couldn't do anything but wonder "What the fuck was that!?" all the way through the day.
I'm still fucking wondering.