December 1, 2008
From I. My wife took a leave from work after our first child and ended up getting (unintentionally) pregnant again before her leave was up. Oops. Three years later she’s still a stay at home mom. I work two jobs and come home dead tired every night.
Last night I dreamt we traded places. I had to take care of the kids and clean the house with a pink vacuum and cook dinner wearing an apron and you know what? It was the most relaxing fucking day of my life.
November 29, 2008
This dream is hard for me to admit… I teach teenagers with special needs and lately I’ve been having dreams about having sex with my students. Really, they’re more like nightmares. At least once a week I’ll have one. Sometimes it’s consensual and sometimes I’m being held down against my will. One I really remember was one of the bigger kids in the class holding me down and calling me a “dumbass” or a “retard.” This kid is kind of the class bully and he’s always out of line, calling other kids names and getting physical with them. I know I’m supposed to be impartial but I really don’t like this kid. I’ve had a few dreams about him. Sometimes I get away from him and sometimes I don’t. Most of the dreams take place in the classroom or somewhere else in the school (behind the bleachers, out back at the dumpster, in my car, etc.)
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November 19, 2008
A realm in the variance of perspective:
I’m in an elevator to the top floor of my new executive position job to meet my new boss, hoping to charm him with my charisma and sweet smile. I meet him in his suit; his partner is Christian Bale as Patrick Bateman from the movie of Ellis’s book “American Psycho.” I have personal romantic relations with Christian (or Patrick) at first, but leave him for the top honcho who is the most attractive man I have never seen in my life. Christian/Patrick is not surprised. A little tiffed and pissy like large family youngest children get, but not surprised. We remain friends. In both relationships; flashes of sweet frolicking bed smitten type cuddling. No hot sex; but it’s implied that we’ve been intimate many times before. Lying in bed with the handsome new man I’ve won over, the perspective changes.
I am Patrick Bateman in my suit walking underneath a muddy bridge, shoes sticking and getting sucked by mud. I find two girls in wheelbarrows on the verge of death, naked, barely breathing. It’s implied that these girls ended up there by a drought; there had been no rain and they were dying of thirst; mermaids, with feet. I walk up to the first girl, a pale brunette, mouth something spiteful to her feeling angry, cut her throat with a razor, one long clean line from one end of her neck to the other. A bright red showers her gray chest, her perfect breasts, blood pouring out of her throat as she makes a final gasp, unmoving, a small twitch, a jerk, eyes glazed, open. I stare at her as she bleeds–hating her. I walk to the other girl in a wheelbarrow, legs dangling, just a few feet away: a blonde, staring at nothing, unblinking, breathing shallow. I tell the girl it’s her lucky day; that she’ll be spared; that I feel merciful. I fetch a dirty wet rag and wring it above her mouth, water grazing her lips as her throat constricts gestures of swallowing. I tell her she should tell people I spared her.
The perspective changes, I’m walking towards a lunch bistro to have cocktails with my work associates, I see them waving, smoking cigarettes and chatting over scotch and barely touched plates of food. I sit down and have a martini before returning to work. I am no longer angry. I feel nothing.