|My hair is far more sexy now.|
Out of the great wisdom God has seen fit to dump upon me (oh dear, we can see where this is going already), I decided not long ago to open a file on my iPhone’s Notes app titled, “sleep notes.” The intent was to provide a way for me, the author, to jot random arresting thoughts as I hover on the fringes of sleep at night.
Some things are just too good to forget.
The problem is I forgot most of what I wrote about. I can’t blame me, either, because what I left for myself is pretty cryptic. Take the first note, for instance:
But you will be brought home with yr head in a sack.
I am wracking my brain to try to remember what that was all about. I’m pretty sure I had been listening to my audio Bible that night, somewhere in mid-Genesis. Life was rough in those times. We’re a bunch of pansies now. That’s what I get out of it. I should take better notes, I know, but you’ve got to admit I’m doing pretty good for a guy who’s writing while mostly asleep. Next.
Underwater ok w o scuba. Rooms that go forever. Something is wrong with my companion. Strangers walking by my son and take him big clang
I’m providing fodder to the psych machine, I know. Before everyone else has a crack at my subconscious, though, allow me to oblige with my own analysis: I can breathe underwater, but only in large rooms, and only if my buddy is completely deranged. If someone I don’t know tries to take my son whilst we’re walking, they will be destroyed by a massive falling steel girder. That is all. Next.
Dog your own grave without knowing it.
I like dogs. I like them when they belong to other people and I don’t have to live with them. I don’t like picking up poo out of the grass. I especially don’t like, and this has been well publicized, picking up poo out of my grass, especially since I do not own a dog, and I especially do not like it, Sam I am, when your dog is the cause of the poo in my grass. Therefore the meaning of this cryptic note, having set the stage for proper context, can be summed up with one word: dogicide. That is, if I catch your mangy walking shite factory doing the doo on my grass. I will throw rocks and not try to miss.
Of course I’m speaking metaphorically. Which brings us on to our final dreamland note:
I’m pretty sure I was thinking along the lines of a stopped up toilet. Perhaps what had clogged it was, let’s say, akin to “waste.” I really don’t know what I was thinking, but I can guess. And by the way, why does it always come down to potty jokes for me? Is it because I’m a man? Perhaps. If that’s true, and a man, any man, every man, can be summed up so cheaply and so easily, then all women—by extension—are vicious gossiping harpies. See, that’s not nice, is it ladies? DON’T JUDGE ME, THEN. I’m a man, and I have feelings too, and they’re in my heart, not somewhere else as has been rumored, FALSELY. Just because a man’s definition of romance is a little different than yours doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Okay. Uh. Where was I. Oh! Yes. The meaning of this dreamland note is this: I’m not taking any more of your crap, World. Yeah!
Oh, and one more thing: Bears. Beets. Battlestar Galactica.