5) It's Brittany, bitch.

I dreamt last night that I was ass up in my car parked in my driveway and decapitated from the nose up. This might have something to do with the Brittany Spears South Park episode I keep hearing about. This followed the quick slaps given to Julia Roberts by Billy Zane in my fabulously furnished West Village apartment. Not sure if she deserved the last one, he nailed it, it was wicked hard, but the first two she had coming.

Back to my apartment of dreams in NYC. The bedroom was a deep red with black accents. The walls almost seemed to move and sway with the force of Billy's hand. The four post bed was a mixture of cherry stain and natural wood knots. It looked a bit over dramatic for my style but thems the breaks. The bed was the center piece of the room, as it should be, but it damn well took up the entire space. Besides the small amount of room given at the foot of the bed to Julia who was holding her swelling check...this by the way was a bit too real for me. I actually saw the bruise start to form and skin slowly tear open from the pooling blood under it. I did have a lot of bean salsa last night. The bed was huge even for me. I'm not that big. My elephant trunks only hang so far off the bed. I'm not sure of the spread of the bed. I think it was still in blackish-red, like a cherry floated in coke. I get the same feeling in my life from that analogy.

The first moment the cherry hits the fizzing high fructose corn syrup it sinks hard but still has the reserve of a struggling fat actor. It doesn't want to sink. It can't sink. The fizz helps keep it just under the wake line, like his true number one fan who gives inspiration.

My life as a floating fruit.

I feel stuck in a pothole realm where there are not only just a few good men but none that can change a flat. Not to mention, all straight. My expanding sense of humor to incorporate all that is ironic is failing me when it comes to having a relationship with a man. The one that is most important and will always be is the one with my father. Unfortunately, he had three daughters and one has a penis. The disappointment of my pops: the saga continues. No amount of disillusionment can raise the expectations of ones feelings towards the misunderstandings between a father and son. I guess it's my disappointment in myself that is the catalyst of our nonexistent relationship. I blame cheese. More on this installment coming soon.