the miserable circus of storytelling.

you're drinking orange juice and someone taps you on the shoulder. it's you! "you will see me tomorrow," you say. "tell me to stop thinking about her."

the fact that some messiah is not going to come knocking at my door tomorrow to tell me that my heart is like an overchlorinated swimming pool doesn't keep me from incessantly getting up and looking through the peep-hole and once in a while knocking on it myself from the inside. that last sentence was not a metaphor. i think it was a dream.

and if you ever find yourself inside of a dream don't take the advice of a family member when they tell you to go to a house in the middle of the woods where supposedly live and aunt and uncle of yours you've never heard of because it might mean that you have to stave off a goblin insurrection in a mansion that can be driven like a car. it could also mean that after the rebellion has subsided you're going to be forced into s&m torture by those supposed family members alongside a sexy "cousin" who makes you feel a little better because you figure it probably happens to her every day. you might even tell yourself that this is a dream and then wake up. but you don't wake up in the place you went to sleep. instead you're in your grandmother's house eleven years ago and you're thirsty. so you walk past the dog that's a scorpion and get yourself some orange juice.