I try not to tell other people about my existential experiences because I don't think most people can handle my infinite being. Let's face it, you might get your mind blown, and I can't handle that responsibility right now. However, on this day, just this once, you are allowed a keyhole glimpse into the 4th dimensional portal that is my psyche. While I can never truly convey my tale with words, or even using the entire realm of human experience, I will do my best. Be warned, traveler: Few have tread the path upon which you are about to embark...

Last night, whilst enjoying a typical somnolent odyssey (you might know them as dreams) in which I was portrayed as a revolutionary teenager in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, I felt a stirring from the outside, and was roused from the progression of the dream narrative. I woke in my parents house, still as an adolescent, but this was a lucid experience where I was controlling my movements, and observing things in this new world with remarkable clarity. I then became aware of my current dream state, and desiring to return to the previous post-apocalyptic sleeping state, I was able to "fall asleep" within the lucid dream. Thenceforth I returned to and eventually finished the dream within a dream. Upon resuming the lucid state, I flew around like Superman for a while (that was my idea), and then decided to wake up fo' real. Obviously, I remembered everything, but I still have a slightly uneasy feeling that I am still in a dream. The burning question: Is this blog real? Maybe I have been dreaming about this whole blog and I will wake up and be in a whole new blog, with whole new Friendsters and testimonials, and my entire profile will be some other profile that is the real me. Do I even look like the pictures on my profile page?

This episode only confirms my theory that I have hidden psionic abilities. Like Professor X with a fauxhawk and no wheelchair.

Dear Lucy,

I'm sorry for being over-affectionate. Sometimes you are so adorable that I can't help cradling you like a baby and kissing your furry little face and blowing warm air into your fur. I'm also sorry for drugging you and super-gluing your tongue to your nose. That was wrong of me.

Love,

Trey




This is just the attractive tree that is outside of my apartment and all over Jackson. I wanted to post it to remind myself (and you, gentle reader) that beauty sometimes brings pain...or allergies.

I'm a big fan of cock rock.

My dream is to bring cock to all musical genres willing to accept it. One day I hope to turn on the radio and hear cock pop, cock easy listening, cock world music, or even cock classical.

I have a dream that New Orleans will experience a post-modern revitalization of the underground music scene, similar to the late 70's halcyon years in Manchester. All the ingredients are there: depression, civil unrest, controversy, oppression. Maybe it is already happening and I don't know about it. If a floodgutted house isn't inspiration enough for a lovely, brooding song about your life crumbling down around you, I don't know what is.

This might be the wrong direction for the majority of NOLA's citizens; I think most people are inspired by positivity rather than depression. Can someone diagnose me here? Why do I feel like I can't move when things are going great? Why do I feel like I've been lifted up when life pushes me down?

Moments In the Last Few Days That Were Slightly More Awkward Than Creepy:

1. I am sleeping and am roused by something on the bed. I look up to find my cat staring at me in the dark from the foot of the bed. I reach out my hand to becon her; she moves not an inch. She continues to stare, unflinching, as though she has spotted an otherworldly presence. One of us farts, and both of us pretend we didn't notice.

2. I am talking to someone that I don't really like and I notice that his fly is down. It is especially apparent because he is sitting down with his legs splayed out in front of him. I point out his overventilation, and he reaches down (while still maintaining eye contact and without breaking his flow of speech) with both hands and fumbles around like he can't find his crotch. He fumbles for about three sentences. After finally securing the zipper, he stops talking and looks down and seems to be wondering why he was touching himself down there. He doesn't look back up for a while.

3. I print out song lyrics that I plan to tape up inside the bathroom stalls of the men's bathroom at work. Titles include Boston's "More Than A Feeling," Journey's "Don't Stop Believing," and Europe's "The Final Countdown." While I am finishing the final stall, someone starts to use the Boston stall. As I pretend to finish my business and exit, I hear the mystery person slowly start to hum the melody to the song and sing the lyrics under their breath. I recognize their shoes.