For the last couple weeks different people at work—both patients as well as employees—have been talking about the movie Inception. Since the movie is about dreams, its no wonder a Sleep Center houses a lot of discussion about it. People at the Sleep Center have long since given up on me following any part of current pop culture, but since it involves dreams a few people asked if I had seen it and what I thought. I doubted the movie had any relevance to dream interpretation, but I thought if I was going to convince people of that, I needed to see the movie. So last night Sammy, Boyce, and I went and saw it. Both of them loved it, and while I enjoyed the film, I think I had a different interpretation. I don’t want to spoil your movie, but I do want to blow your mind: even though you watched that movie, it’s all less real than any dream of the guy who tore your ticket, no matter how dimly you remember what that guy looked like.
Part of the movie’s premise is that you can enter one another’s dreams through a series of chemical mixtures. More than the movie itself, the three of us were interested in attempting, even though we know it can’t be done, of entering each others' dreams. Our chemical mixtures were some drinks, and our laboratory was Boyce’s basement. We all tried to fall asleep at the same time, and although we didn’t have iv’s hooked up to a briefcase like in the movie, we sometimes reached out and slapped or pinched each other where an iv would be, while saying things like, “I’ll be the guy in the kickass motorcycle,” or, “Look for me, I’ll be in the kickass motorcycle’s sidecar,” or “Watch out for me because I don’t look when I change lanes,” or “I get it…but seriously, I hope I’m in a cool motorcycle,” or “What if motorcycles are just phallic images in dreams?” or, “I’ve explained to you a hundred times how symbols in dreams work. Why won’t you listen?” or “What would it be like to dream the idea of a symbol? What would that look like? If a symbol was trying to eat me, would it just be the letters?” or “Huh?” or “No, I get it, because if it was something, then it would be a symbol-of, not a symbol,” or “Exactly,” or “This better not be my dream right now.”
I generally don’t dream about Sammy and Boyce because they are in my mind so much while I am waking. Things lately have really changed in regards to what I dream about, so I had hopes that the experiment would work. Of course it didn’t. We didn’t enter each other’s dreams. I didn’t have a dream that involved Sammy and Boyce, despite the fact that after I went to sleep Sammy crawled on top of me and whispered his name in my ear over and over. We all did, however, dream. And I made it into both Sammy’s and Boyce’s.
Sammy dreamed he was in a rodeo contest with Kimberly Dong Kill, the leader of North Korea. I was the judge, and when I called it a draw, the North Korean leader rode a bull into a lake and when he came back out he was riding a clock.
Boyce dreamed he was riding a school bus, and Charlotte’s father was waiting for him at the stop to hit him with a shovel. When Boyce got off the bus, I was waiting on the other side of the street shaking a handful of doorknobs and calling Charlotte’s father some very, very vulgar names.
Both dreams were obvious, and I interpreted them both in one sentence—the same way I interpret every dream I now have of Rachel: “You’re leaving.” Just like my father used to say when he watched the orioles migrate, one of the earliest birds to do so. And I would tell him, “But they’ll be back in the spring,” and he would always say, “How do you know?”
Friday, July 30, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Farewell, Dr. Keegman!
On Friday morning Sammy—with his brother’s car that is fast becoming his, what with his impending decision about leaving town—picked up Boyce and I so we could get to Dr. Keegman’s office before anyone could show up and get the Camaro out of the way. We parked at a dentist office just down the way and crouched in some hedges to watch from the corner of the parking lot. We were there a while before anyone showed up, and we got to talking. Sammy said he has to make a decision very soon. Boyce had a couple come to the house to look it over for a second time. I didn’t want to talk about these things so I told them that once I asked my father if there was such a thing as reincarnation. He said no, but if there was, he’d come back as a cricket so he could be eaten by a bird. I asked him what if he was eaten by a frog instead, and he just shrugged his shoulders. Sammy said if there was reincarnation he’d come back as a cloud. He’d spend all day making people nervous in planes and raining on birds—because where the hell do they go in a rainstorm anyway? I tried to answer Sammy but Boyce chimed in that he would be a snake but only if he could live near a day care playground. We talked about it so much that we almost missed Dr. Keegman’s receptionist.
She walked up to the Camaro like she was expecting it. She stared for a few minutes at the car and then suddenly broke into loud, kind of horrifying, sobbing. We both looked at Sammy since he has been the guy behind all the deliveries to Keegman’s office—the old Arby’s food, the pornographic magazines, the pet store snakes, the mail order brides, the reams and reams of Zionist pamphlets. Sammy looked like he accidentally set someone’s lawn on fire. And that receptionist, oh mamma, she was still crying hard. It was getting really uncomfortable there. We nudged Sammy to do something, but he questioned whether a strange man emerging from the hedges to accost her sobbing at an engine-less Camaro in front of her work would actually be helpful. Boyce told him if he ever wanted to be reincarnated as a cloud, this is the kind of thing he needed to do.
Sammy stood up and walked out of the hedges. The receptionist saw him walk forward and she must have recognized him from some of the first deliveries. She started shaking her fist at him, and then began rifling through her purse. Boyce and I stood up out of the hedges while Sammy started walking backward. None of us were sure what she was going to pull out of that purse. Turns out it was pepper spray. She said that we’ve made her life a living hell, and she started spraying. Really though, Sammy was a good twenty yards from her, so the spray just kind of floated around her. Then she dropped it and started screaming and holding her eyes, and the sobbing started all over again. Sammy went up to her but she was kind of a wreck at that point. So he backed away toward us, and shouted, “Your boss is a douche!” and then we left.
We drove back about five minutes later and she was sitting on the curb by herself. She was still crying, but we couldn't tell if that was from the Camaro or macing herself. It didn’t look like she had called the cops, so that was pretty great. Of course if she did, maybe we could find out the real owner of the Camaro. Boyce thought we should just assume Dr. Keegman was the original owner, and the universe made sure he got stuck with it.
Reincarnation isn’t real, but I sure wish Boyce could be a snake in a day care center. He deserves it.
She walked up to the Camaro like she was expecting it. She stared for a few minutes at the car and then suddenly broke into loud, kind of horrifying, sobbing. We both looked at Sammy since he has been the guy behind all the deliveries to Keegman’s office—the old Arby’s food, the pornographic magazines, the pet store snakes, the mail order brides, the reams and reams of Zionist pamphlets. Sammy looked like he accidentally set someone’s lawn on fire. And that receptionist, oh mamma, she was still crying hard. It was getting really uncomfortable there. We nudged Sammy to do something, but he questioned whether a strange man emerging from the hedges to accost her sobbing at an engine-less Camaro in front of her work would actually be helpful. Boyce told him if he ever wanted to be reincarnated as a cloud, this is the kind of thing he needed to do.
Sammy stood up and walked out of the hedges. The receptionist saw him walk forward and she must have recognized him from some of the first deliveries. She started shaking her fist at him, and then began rifling through her purse. Boyce and I stood up out of the hedges while Sammy started walking backward. None of us were sure what she was going to pull out of that purse. Turns out it was pepper spray. She said that we’ve made her life a living hell, and she started spraying. Really though, Sammy was a good twenty yards from her, so the spray just kind of floated around her. Then she dropped it and started screaming and holding her eyes, and the sobbing started all over again. Sammy went up to her but she was kind of a wreck at that point. So he backed away toward us, and shouted, “Your boss is a douche!” and then we left.
We drove back about five minutes later and she was sitting on the curb by herself. She was still crying, but we couldn't tell if that was from the Camaro or macing herself. It didn’t look like she had called the cops, so that was pretty great. Of course if she did, maybe we could find out the real owner of the Camaro. Boyce thought we should just assume Dr. Keegman was the original owner, and the universe made sure he got stuck with it.
Reincarnation isn’t real, but I sure wish Boyce could be a snake in a day care center. He deserves it.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Goodbye to a good friend
This morning both Sammy and Boyce came over. They had no idea I was cleaning out the house, and promptly told me that if I’m planning on keeping things secret from them I shouldn’t write it on the blog. So even though I could have been sad that they found out, I was more thrilled that they were reading this.
Sammy and Boyce didn’t like the fact that I kept dodging the question as to why I was cleaning out so much of the house. I told them it was something that had been coming for a long time, and I certainly didn’t need all this stuff. They didn’t like it one bit though, and when Boyce saw me put a few of my dream books into the trash he was clearly unhappy. I told him those books were beginners’ stuff, and I could write something much better. I don’t know if he believed me, but it’s true. Here are four rules to dream interpretation that are never mentioned in dream books.
I waited all day for Rachel to get off work, and not just so she would give me a ride home. When we got in the car she asked if I was feeling okay now, and I told her that her friend was going to miscarry the baby. Rachel didn’t talk to me for the rest of the ride until I got out, and that’s when she told me to get out. She didn’t even talk to me for two weeks until finally she called. Crying. She didn't have to tell me, and I didn't want to make her tell me, so I said, “The bright side is I got it right.”
Anyway, giving those dream books away made Boyce uncomfortable, but not nearly as uncomfortable when the wrecker came to take away the Camaro. I thought Sammy was going to have a fit. I told them it needed to go, and since I had called the county’s bluff many years ago, I was going to have be the one to do it.
The guy towing it was clearly confused when he realized how light the camaro was. “No engine!” I shouted as Sammy ran out to him. The two of them talked for a a few minutes, and Sammy was clearly pleading with him. The driver just pointed up to me though, since I was the guy who called him. I told Sammy and Boyce though that it had to go. Sammy went back to the driver, talked with him a bit, and then came back. “Ok,” he said, "so it’s getting towed, but the guy said we could all ride in the cab with him if we wanted.”
The driver didn’t even mind that there weren’t seat belts and we were all crushed into the cab together. He was clearly dejected about something, and it only took a couple miles towing the Camaro before Sammy asked him. Apparently, the driver’s son had earlier been cut from the football team, and it was still only summer practices. Football was not only the son’s dream, but the father’s dream too. So much so that the son’s name was John Elway Wrigglesworth. Apparently, John Wrigglesworth was a great football player. When Boyce asked what happened, he said John Elway was too fat and the school wouldn’t let him play because they were afraid he would have a heat stroke.
Sammy seized the opportunity and said, “So what do you say about not taking this car to the dump?” The driver just shrugged. “So could we take it someplace else?” The driver again shrugged. So Sammy gave him directions to Dr. Jonathan Keegman’s office. When we got there, the driver asked where he should put the Camaro. We all said anywhere in the parking lot. Boyce asked the driver where he’d like to put it, and the driver said he’d like to put it up those school administrators’ asses. Boyce said that would be tough, but how about something nearly as good: “Leave it right there on the sidewalk."
That driver must have channeled his hate right into Dr. Keegman’s building, because not only did he get the Camaro up on the sidewalk, but he got it blocking the front door, too. The driver took pictures of us on our cell phones leaning on the Camaro. We also popped the hood and got some pictures sitting where the engine should be. By the end even the driver wanted a picture, and he got in the driver's seat and stuck his middle finger out the window. I'm not sure who he was giving the bird to, but he was finally smiling, so we cheered.
We stopped at Arby’s on the way home and Sammy got the driver some lunch, telling him John Elway could come whenever he’d like some free fries. “If he’s too fat to play football, let’s get him so fat he explodes all over those administrators.” The driver thought that was funny, and started flipping the bird again at no one in particular.
After Arby's he dropped us off back at my house. Sammy and Boyce still weren’t happy that I was packing things up, but they were pretty pleased about what happened to the Camaro. We all agreed to go early to Dr. Keegman’s office and watch from the bushes.
Sammy and Boyce didn’t like the fact that I kept dodging the question as to why I was cleaning out so much of the house. I told them it was something that had been coming for a long time, and I certainly didn’t need all this stuff. They didn’t like it one bit though, and when Boyce saw me put a few of my dream books into the trash he was clearly unhappy. I told him those books were beginners’ stuff, and I could write something much better. I don’t know if he believed me, but it’s true. Here are four rules to dream interpretation that are never mentioned in dream books.
1. Knowing the person is crucial. Few, myself among them, can interpret a stranger’s dream.Rachel worked as a receptionist for a government agency, and a couple times I stopped by to see her. Based on how she responded when her co-workers asked if this was her boyfriend, I could tell she knew I was always going to be smitten with her, but I could also tell she never really knew how much I loved her. Once, in order to distract from the awkwardness after the boyfriend question, Rachel told me that her co-worker had just had a crazy dream the night before. She told the co-worker, her name was Ashley or Abby, and she was about seven months pregnant, that I was a great dream interpreter, and Ashley-Abby got all excited and the three of us sat down in the break room. Ashley-Abby told me her dream, and as she did so I watched how she would stutter a bit and not make eye contact with me. The dream was about having her baby, but then it getting smaller and smaller until she found it floating peacefully on a tiny raft in an aquarium. When she asked what the dream meant I looked over at Rachel. In what Boyce calls the most compassionate move I ever made, I said, “I’m sorry I need a bathroom.” And when Rachel said, “Cyrus, are you okay?” I screamed, “Please stop talking and tell me!” Rachel pointed down the hall and I ran to the bathroom. I waited inside for about ten minutes, then, when I looked out the door and saw Rachel and Ashley-Abby weren’t looking, I ran down the stairwell to the street.
2. The symbol is less important than the dreamer’s emotional attachment to the symbol.
3. How the dreamer tells the dream is as important as what the dream was.
4. Sometimes people don’t want to know what their dreams really mean. Large men don’t like to be told they are filled with self-loathing, most likely due to latent homosexuality. Trust me.
I waited all day for Rachel to get off work, and not just so she would give me a ride home. When we got in the car she asked if I was feeling okay now, and I told her that her friend was going to miscarry the baby. Rachel didn’t talk to me for the rest of the ride until I got out, and that’s when she told me to get out. She didn’t even talk to me for two weeks until finally she called. Crying. She didn't have to tell me, and I didn't want to make her tell me, so I said, “The bright side is I got it right.”
Anyway, giving those dream books away made Boyce uncomfortable, but not nearly as uncomfortable when the wrecker came to take away the Camaro. I thought Sammy was going to have a fit. I told them it needed to go, and since I had called the county’s bluff many years ago, I was going to have be the one to do it.
The guy towing it was clearly confused when he realized how light the camaro was. “No engine!” I shouted as Sammy ran out to him. The two of them talked for a a few minutes, and Sammy was clearly pleading with him. The driver just pointed up to me though, since I was the guy who called him. I told Sammy and Boyce though that it had to go. Sammy went back to the driver, talked with him a bit, and then came back. “Ok,” he said, "so it’s getting towed, but the guy said we could all ride in the cab with him if we wanted.”
The driver didn’t even mind that there weren’t seat belts and we were all crushed into the cab together. He was clearly dejected about something, and it only took a couple miles towing the Camaro before Sammy asked him. Apparently, the driver’s son had earlier been cut from the football team, and it was still only summer practices. Football was not only the son’s dream, but the father’s dream too. So much so that the son’s name was John Elway Wrigglesworth. Apparently, John Wrigglesworth was a great football player. When Boyce asked what happened, he said John Elway was too fat and the school wouldn’t let him play because they were afraid he would have a heat stroke.
Sammy seized the opportunity and said, “So what do you say about not taking this car to the dump?” The driver just shrugged. “So could we take it someplace else?” The driver again shrugged. So Sammy gave him directions to Dr. Jonathan Keegman’s office. When we got there, the driver asked where he should put the Camaro. We all said anywhere in the parking lot. Boyce asked the driver where he’d like to put it, and the driver said he’d like to put it up those school administrators’ asses. Boyce said that would be tough, but how about something nearly as good: “Leave it right there on the sidewalk."
That driver must have channeled his hate right into Dr. Keegman’s building, because not only did he get the Camaro up on the sidewalk, but he got it blocking the front door, too. The driver took pictures of us on our cell phones leaning on the Camaro. We also popped the hood and got some pictures sitting where the engine should be. By the end even the driver wanted a picture, and he got in the driver's seat and stuck his middle finger out the window. I'm not sure who he was giving the bird to, but he was finally smiling, so we cheered.
We stopped at Arby’s on the way home and Sammy got the driver some lunch, telling him John Elway could come whenever he’d like some free fries. “If he’s too fat to play football, let’s get him so fat he explodes all over those administrators.” The driver thought that was funny, and started flipping the bird again at no one in particular.
After Arby's he dropped us off back at my house. Sammy and Boyce still weren’t happy that I was packing things up, but they were pretty pleased about what happened to the Camaro. We all agreed to go early to Dr. Keegman’s office and watch from the bushes.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Cleaning Out the House
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve written mainly because I’ve been so busy cleaning things out of my house, getting things ready. It's hard to write on the blog since I keep finding unexpected things, like in my mother’s old bedroom—pictures, letters, a set of deer knives—as well as in the crawlspace—my birth certificate, first pair of shoes.
In the attic I found an accordion folder that had some of my old papers in it. One was a story I wrote in Mr. Black’s English class in high school. It was about a guy who is allowed to travel back in time, but isn’t able to choose where he goes. He figures since he’s white and has some basic mechanical knowledge, he’ll be fine wherever he goes. He gets sent back in time to the medieval ages, right in the middle of a castle. He’s very excited until he realizes the castle has been besieged for a month. People are starving and the barbarians are at the gates. Everyone asks the new guy how they can be saved, and he introduces the idea of a gun and cannon. He doesn’t have the materials though, so everyone gets mad that he got their hopes up. Then the besiegers begin catapulting animal carcasses over the castle walls to drive the people out due to stench and disease. The people again ask him what to do, and he says, “Well, don’t eat those things.” And then, and this was Sammy’s favorite line when I read it to him, a villager says, “No shit, Sherlock!” Sherlock wasn’t even invented yet, Sammy said. But then I told him Sherlock was the loser wizard of the castle that everyone made fun of, so it actually made perfect sense.
The guy from the present does know enough about biology to realize they had to burn the animals. So they burned all the rotting carcasses, but it still stunk really bad. The guy sits on a bale of hay and someone asks him what they’re going to do now, but the guy doesn’t have any more ideas. Someone from the town says, “This guy’s no better than Sherlock!”, then someone comes up behind the guy and clubs him in the head and kills him. The end.
In his comments on the paper, Mr. Black asked me, “WHAT IS THE THEME OF THIS STORY? WHAT IS IT REALLY ABOUT?” Around seventeen years later I still don’t know what Mr. Black was talking about when he wrote that. The themes are endless. Don’t travel back in time unless you have power of time and destination. If traveling in time, bring a backpack full of do-it-yourself manuals. Even if there is no manual on our current bookshelves about surviving a medieval siege, there might be one about building your own trebuchet. But the primary theme is: try to avoid being dumber than the scapegoat. Every scared victim of bullying knows this.
I also found a sheet of names from when Sammy, Boyce, Rachel and I had a long conversation over drinks and Led Zeppelin about who we would be as superheroes. Sammy said he would be called Ham Radio, but his power would be shooting lightning bolts out of his face. Naturally, we asked him why he wasn’t called Zeus or Lightning-man. Sammy said, a) people would think it was weird, and their last thought upon dying from horrifying electric burns would be, “Ham radio? I don’t get it.”, and b) as a superhero he would spend his down time operating a ham radio, thus naming himself after his hobby rather than his power. Boyce said he would be a villain, aptly named The Locksmith. His hands would turn into keys which he could open any door with, or he could just punch people with his key-hands. Sammy asked him how he would do with combination safes, and we all agreed they would be his mortal enemy. Rachel said she would be The Locust. She thought the name really resonated on a lot of levels. She wasn’t sure what her power was, so she said she would somehow cause the end of the world. Plus she could jump high. God, she would always say the best things.
My superhero was named Lesser Bird of Paradise, after the bird, Lesser Bird of Paradise. And I wasn’t so much a superhero as I was a bird. Specifically, a Lesser Bird of Paradise. When the others said that’s not how it worked, I accused them of discriminating against the ethical impulses of Class Aves. We agreed to a compromise: I was allowed to be Lesser Bird of Paradise, the Lesser Bird of Paradise, official pet-sidekick of Ham Radio. We even worked out some signature lines for everyone, just in case they made comic books of us:
Those were the days.
In the attic I found an accordion folder that had some of my old papers in it. One was a story I wrote in Mr. Black’s English class in high school. It was about a guy who is allowed to travel back in time, but isn’t able to choose where he goes. He figures since he’s white and has some basic mechanical knowledge, he’ll be fine wherever he goes. He gets sent back in time to the medieval ages, right in the middle of a castle. He’s very excited until he realizes the castle has been besieged for a month. People are starving and the barbarians are at the gates. Everyone asks the new guy how they can be saved, and he introduces the idea of a gun and cannon. He doesn’t have the materials though, so everyone gets mad that he got their hopes up. Then the besiegers begin catapulting animal carcasses over the castle walls to drive the people out due to stench and disease. The people again ask him what to do, and he says, “Well, don’t eat those things.” And then, and this was Sammy’s favorite line when I read it to him, a villager says, “No shit, Sherlock!” Sherlock wasn’t even invented yet, Sammy said. But then I told him Sherlock was the loser wizard of the castle that everyone made fun of, so it actually made perfect sense.
The guy from the present does know enough about biology to realize they had to burn the animals. So they burned all the rotting carcasses, but it still stunk really bad. The guy sits on a bale of hay and someone asks him what they’re going to do now, but the guy doesn’t have any more ideas. Someone from the town says, “This guy’s no better than Sherlock!”, then someone comes up behind the guy and clubs him in the head and kills him. The end.
In his comments on the paper, Mr. Black asked me, “WHAT IS THE THEME OF THIS STORY? WHAT IS IT REALLY ABOUT?” Around seventeen years later I still don’t know what Mr. Black was talking about when he wrote that. The themes are endless. Don’t travel back in time unless you have power of time and destination. If traveling in time, bring a backpack full of do-it-yourself manuals. Even if there is no manual on our current bookshelves about surviving a medieval siege, there might be one about building your own trebuchet. But the primary theme is: try to avoid being dumber than the scapegoat. Every scared victim of bullying knows this.
I also found a sheet of names from when Sammy, Boyce, Rachel and I had a long conversation over drinks and Led Zeppelin about who we would be as superheroes. Sammy said he would be called Ham Radio, but his power would be shooting lightning bolts out of his face. Naturally, we asked him why he wasn’t called Zeus or Lightning-man. Sammy said, a) people would think it was weird, and their last thought upon dying from horrifying electric burns would be, “Ham radio? I don’t get it.”, and b) as a superhero he would spend his down time operating a ham radio, thus naming himself after his hobby rather than his power. Boyce said he would be a villain, aptly named The Locksmith. His hands would turn into keys which he could open any door with, or he could just punch people with his key-hands. Sammy asked him how he would do with combination safes, and we all agreed they would be his mortal enemy. Rachel said she would be The Locust. She thought the name really resonated on a lot of levels. She wasn’t sure what her power was, so she said she would somehow cause the end of the world. Plus she could jump high. God, she would always say the best things.
My superhero was named Lesser Bird of Paradise, after the bird, Lesser Bird of Paradise. And I wasn’t so much a superhero as I was a bird. Specifically, a Lesser Bird of Paradise. When the others said that’s not how it worked, I accused them of discriminating against the ethical impulses of Class Aves. We agreed to a compromise: I was allowed to be Lesser Bird of Paradise, the Lesser Bird of Paradise, official pet-sidekick of Ham Radio. We even worked out some signature lines for everyone, just in case they made comic books of us:
Ham Radio: I hope your searing burns don't interfere with my amateur radio antennae!
The Locksmith: I am a locksmith!The Locust: Prepare to meet thy God--booooiiiinnnnnnggggg!!!!!!!!!
The Lesser Bird of Paradise: [mute]
 |
| A Lesser Bird of Paradise, like me, Lesser Bird of Paradise, the Lesser Bird of Paradise |
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Letters
This past week I was going through some of the stuff at the house, just to get rid of it. I didn’t call Sammy or Boyce to help because I don’t want them to know yet. Things aren’t ready yet. I went down in the back room of the basement where almost none of the stuff is mine. The basement has flooded a couple times so a lot of the papers were unreadable, but I did come across a box of letters between my mother and father. I guess when they broke up my mother kept them. I doubt she read them very much, but she at least kept them a whole lot longer than she did my trophies for participation.
“Teresa, Your brother told me your parents are concerned about the age. That I never found someone my own age. That this must suggest I am unable to find someone older. I can’t see age anymore. That part of my eyes has deteriorated—maybe from my own age, but maybe from staring at secrets too long. It doesn’t bother me. I may have minded once—about the age, or about the secrets. But what’s done is here. It’s here now.”
“Bill, Huh? Are you talking about sex?”
“Teresa, Based on how you reacted last night, I probably should explain. I simply can’t pass by a dead bird. He must be buried. I will bury him in a marsh or through the middle of asphalt. Anything to keep him from the bugs and the worms. I know they’re coming, but I don’t have to look at it happen, do I?”
“Bill, I was drunk last night. Please god tell me you were when you wrote that.”
“Teresa, Yes, I will marry you.”
“Goddamn right you will. But don’t think you’re getting me pregnant. I’ll drive us all into a river first.”
“Teresa, I’m assuming you’ll let me back home when the baby is born. If not, I have bird books to get him.”
“Bill, the doctor said he’ll be born in just a few weeks. He told me it’s been stupid of me to smoke that many packs all the way through the pregnancy. So he might be gay or a hunchback or something. So he’s definitely your kid."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)