Sunday, October 3
The most pathetic and pointless dream is about to be shared with you kids.

I swear to all Jimmy Page, I have the most fucking weird and pointless dreams in all history and prehistoric and modern and futuristic history. I never have had a good dream in my entire life. Never. I'm dead serious, asshole. It's not fair. It saddens me to read about people's good dreams in their journals, while I'm stuck with my shitty ones about bombs and public bathrooms and retarded big toothed people. This is the reason I don't like to sleep. This is probably the most nightmare prone person next to those bald kids in Minority Report. You're really goddamn lucky if you get pleasant dreams every night. Sexual Guns n Roses and Nine Inch Nails orgy fantasies. You lucky bastards.

But to my surprise, one night I had a dream about Izzy Stradlin. Here comes my pointless dream.

He was wearing a black shirt and black pants with the usual beads around his neck, denim jacket and newsboy hat. I see him from behind. He picks up a bag of cocaine on a table. I wake up.

There. There it is. That is all that God will give me as a non-nightmarish slumber. It was less than a fucking second. I mean, we could've gotten high and fucked for God's sake! But nooooooo, he picked up a bag of coke and I fucking wake up. That's it. Not fair. Fuck you sandman. Shove that sand up your ass and grind your butt cheeks together until they bleed and get infected.

Since then I've pretty much given up on getting a good night's sleep. Especially on Sundays. Maybe I'm depressed or something, or just plain retarded, but that's the day I always feel shitty and guilty about myself for no apparent reason, even if I do have good hopes and vibes from the day(s) before and no dark clouds on the horizon whatsover at all. Then the day ends with a great surprise. Usually a really bad, tormenting nightmare that leaves me waking up in sweat at night, not being able to sleep aftewards then being forced to watch toilet cleaner infomercials at 3:00 A.M. If I were ever to be in a coma, I'd die anyway of shock from my own dreams. After being raped by some 200 pound bear skin rug chested guy that Buck brought in from the nudie bar downtown.

I really need money, fuckers. I must have that Ju Ju Hounds CD pronto.


Christina N. @ 7:01 PM