When I'm loafing around in my bed reading Bertrand Russell books or having a red eyed, sweaty palmed, Hiroshima-proportioned session of self stimulation, I'm always wondering if I'll ever reach my dream. Will my castle in the air ever mutate itself into reality, complete with a mortgage, a cheating trophy wife, and six mistresses all on the side, all with a divergent ethnic background but the same plastic surgeon? Oh how I hope these strife ridden trails will clear of brush and these thunderstorms are escorted out by halcyon horizons, ushering in a new era of euphoria...and boobs.
The majority of the conversations I find myself in have about as much depth as the little ripples of fat on the spoiled spoils that you scale against the amount of alcohol you've consumed on a given evening. It seems that every one's life around me has been reduced to alcohol, scavenging for the super aids, or riding fixed gear bikes. In the bottom of which bottle must I surveillance to find my brethrens' sense of self? As riveting as it must be to sit in the same bar, tip back the same bottle of beer, kick the same pairs of shoes off of a different fling, and have the same neutral conversations, I am under the impression that my worlds' cast have been reduced to zombies...a land of Filbert Turtles forever hearing, fearing, and languishing their "last call" to the Kerplop-it-goes Island.
Perhaps it is not that we have ceased to dream...but that dreaming has just taken a back seat to our repetitive drunken nights. Whatever the case, the sands in the hourglass don't stop for your toast to getting trashed. The light still turns green even though you may be too drunk to notice the red isn't there. The passion has died, the *com* part only making its introductions as the tequila sunrise trickling down your jaw or the white stuff torpedoing its way to a 9 month surprise. You must start to realize that the cheap thrills and photo-stills that you want to remember your life by are the thoughts that will stick with you in self-condemnation when you murmur the question, "what the fuck have I been doing with myself?"
To me, a dream is something, in spite of the turmoils and hubbub that bombard your life, that still gives your eye a glint. Something, that if a door were to make itself known to you, that you would break down full speed, taking the hinges and all with you. Something to truly give yourself a sense of purpose. Something so near and dear to your idea of nirvana that talking about it with someone else makes you feel the slightest bit absurd and out-of-order. That's what I wish we would toast to once in a while. That would make Jameson go down just a Jimminy Cricket's size smoother.
So what's my dream? Well, you know how they have those VH1 love shows with the asinine challenges that somehow represent the ardor you have for your respective inamorata/Romeo? My goal is to eventually land on one of those shows after an illustrius career as a high paid whoever. The DREAM will be the first challenge. I would like to have each Hustler centerfold vying for my heart to get on their knees in front of me as I hold a bottle of Crystal. The challenge is who can profess their adoration for me while I am seductively spraying the bottle all over their face and/or chesticles. Booyah. Maybe when their kids see that at a sleepover the little hussies will also start to chase their true dream. What a cyclical story of happiness.
real dream? honestly...make the world laugh. Maybe Ill be the first guy dressed up as a clown to jump off the empire state building. who nose. honk honk.
speaking of liquor...Pop Off is tonight at the social. FREE WELLS the first hour. If you're a fixed gear queer, there will be bike parking inside tonight. LETS GET DRUUUUUUUUUUUNK!
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touche!
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