April 7, 2007 and I awoke this morning to find that the weather in lovely Novi MI had turned from the cold and insanely windy (wind does charming and wonderful things to my hair and I love it…….) to its present form, the absolute distillation of bullshit. It is 13 degrees, it is snowing, it is wind-ing at a speed of nearly 50 miles per hour. It is April 7th. Part of me wants to shout that at the top of my lungs in the hope that mother nature has merely taken a siesta and although her alarm clock is beeping, she has incorporated that sound into her dream. Maybe her mind has added a bit of a whirring and foaming and she thinks she is waiting in line for a latte? Wake up, sister. This merde needs to go. Posthaste. Observe:
Stress. Dude, I’m feeling it. I always feel awkward talking about things like this because I have the constant fear that others will read it as “oh man, we wants us to feel sorry for him” I don’t. I do want the day to have 48 hours for the next two weeks though. I also want a big frothing beer and someone to work the knots out of my shoulders. I’ve got a lot happening in the next few weeks. Flights to
School. I’m on the cusp of failing my class, which I’m embarrassed to say, but I have only in the last week or so started to grasp that which I was supposed to have known 8 weeks ago, which is also sort of embarrassing, but none the less true. If I fail, I have no real idea what sort of implosion will occur in regards to my academic career but I can’t think it’ll be good. The best part of this class is that it’s not required for my major, WOOT! According to the counselor it was, but then again according to the bookstore, all of the books they sold me were “definitely required”. I could bitch about this situation for days and days. I won’t.
So check out this dream I had the other night. I was in a wig shop. I’m not really in the market for a wig (in the dream or in reality) but nonetheless there I was being peddled fine brunette wigs by NASCAR racing champion Jeff Martin. I had to look that up actually. I Googled the drivers of NASCAR and formed a sort of police line-up to figure out who my salesman was. Worked great. He could see that I wasn’t really biting on his wigsmanship so he asked if I would like to ride along with him on Sunday during his race. “Obviously”, I said. Next thing I know, poof, racing around on the track at breakneck speeds. As we came around turn 3 (turn 3, turn 2, whatever. Who knows, really) Jeff Martin stands on the breaks, pulls the E-brake, and skids to a police chase style stop in the middle of the track. Why? Nicholas Cage was standing about 200 meters down track from us. “Why is Nicholas Cage standing in the middle of the track, Jeff?” He shrugged with infinite indifference and said “I don’t know, that is what he does, either way this is not my problem.” (This part of the dream is an obvious reference to the Stephen Clarke I’ve been inhaling the last week.) Jeff tells me to get out and run at him. “run at him, seriously?!?” “Oh yeah, man. RUN” Jeff exclaimed. So I did. I had covered nearly half the distance when I realized Mr. Cage has been working out. Imagine Stretch Armstrong on steroids, with Nicholas Cage’s head. It was at this point that a voice came over the race loudspeaker and said “This will be the day, Aaron…..This will be the day that you will always remember as the day that Nicholas Cage FUCKED YOU UP!!” 2 seconds later I hit him, as footballers do when the quarterback yells hike. Only instead of grappling each other in murderous rage, I bounced. Like, bounced man. I was flying through the air high above the track. I landed, hard, behind Jeff Martin and he was laughing. “Get in the car, bro. Let’s ride!” I awoke, shrugged and then went back to sleep. What else can you do?
music: "India Rubber" - Radiohead
