Mind babble...

A dream

Last night, I dreamt that I had visited someone that had a profound affect on my life. And what I mean by that, is that this person, at one time, made me come to realize that, in spite of silly love songs, prosaic poetry, romantic notions, and the overall and general idea of love… love does truly happen. And that’s not to say love never happens in all ways, shape or form, but in the fact that I am not one to subscribe love in its silliest form or idea.

This woman in my dream was, is—besides the obvious fact—someone that I had loved beyond what my heart never before thought, or I, was capable of loving. Don’t get me wrong. I am capable of many things, but emotionally, it was a thing I just did not believe could happen. Unless you were to watch romantic movies or read books where boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy, in the end through sheer luck and many trials later, wins girl back.

So there I was—in my dream that is—at her door many years later; actually I had it at two years later if only to be precise. And when she answered the door, I was taken aback at the change she had undergone. Two years ago she was, young, slender and very beautiful. Now, she looked older, had put on some weight, looked haggard, and had a two year old attached to her hips. And she looked at me in disgust, as if I were one of those door-to-door salesmen or some bible preaching missionary out to save her soul.

And when she said, “What d’you want?” her voice had lost that graceful sounding and melodic tone it once possessed. It sounded screechy and whiney and full of venom. Obviously her memory had failed her or I had changed dramatically so much when she didn’t recognize me. It took her all of a minute to realize who I was. Then her face softened which then went to surprise, and variably ended in shame and embarrassment. Then a big, burly, hairy guy in jeans and plaid shirt walked out the door and looked as if he was going out duck hunting, and I was the duck.

He said some expletive words when he had asked who I was and what I was doing there. I told him that I was there to see a friend and I pointed at the baby carrying woman standing behind him. I was shocked to see an angry face get angrier. They had argued, fought and fussed while the baby cried and I stood there unable to move. She then looked at me; and if I could put in words what her look said, it would have gone like this:

“Why the fukc are you here, Julian? I can’t fukcing believe you kept that stupid promise you made just to see me, and now look. Are you happy? Are you glad to see that my life is a mess, got pregnant six months after I ended it with you because we couldn’t talk anymore, and with the guy you hated ‘cause he kept hitting on me and wouldn’t leave me the fukc alone? And that I got fat because I had a baby? Is this why you're here? To see me like this? Because if you are, then you can go fukc yourself and get your stupid ass back to wherever the fukc you live.”

And with that, she went back inside, slammed the door and I never saw her again. Her man, husband or boyfriend stood there on the porch with his arms crossed looking smug. I shrugged my shoulders and left. When I woke this morning, I realized that I had wished her life to be in the toilet only because of how it ended. To be fair, I don’t wish for anyone’s life to end that way. I’d rather they prosper and go on to fulfill what dreams they have and to live a life full of happiness and love.

Sadly, being human, and having had my love and feelings spited…I had done what; I assume many of you have done—if not, then I’m a bad person—many do when they feel wronged. They wish for all the bad things to fall on their laps only to justify the hurt feelings one feels at being rejected. But I won’t deny a certain feeling of satisfaction just having thought that. But I wouldn’t want it to happen. Welp, coffee is a-calling.

Suicidal Tendencies and Babs!

For the second time in my life I had contemplated suicide: the first time—stupid as it was—I had my dad’s gun, in my hand, spinning the chamber and pointing it at my head. Fortunately, it was not loaded when I pulled the trigger. It was a practice in futility. And all because some b*tch had spurned me for some other guy with a shaved head, was two inches shorter, wearing pants that could fit two people at the same time and a shirt that could’ve passed for a dress. This, sad to say, was this doof’s daily uniform.

And when I had pulled the trigger, I had realized the stupidity of it all. Why on earth should I do irreparable, not to mention the amount of pain I’d cause to friends and family, and irreversible harm to my person? I would kill myself over some girl because she preferred someone else? Yeah. It was the lowest time in my life: not so emotionally, but from sheer stupidity.

The second time was today. And it wasn’t so much from being spurned but from emotional blackmail. I was torn on one side, and left confused on the other. And although I would never go through with it as I’ve so much to live for now, the thought did occur. Why anyone would use emotional blackmail to illicit some sort of response towards said blackmailer is beyond me and smacks of pettiness. I was pretty much left drained of any emotional feelings, but my thoughts were running rampant. And it all went by the way of wanting to end it all only because it seemed the easiest solution.

So I sat sullen, sulky, hateful, and more important, feeling as if the world was one big egg left to rot festering with maggots and flies. I turned on the TV, and watched ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’ with a very young Barbara Streisand and George Segal: a story of a sexually inept writer who falls in love with a very beautiful hooker. Yeah. Now if only life imitated art.

okay...before anyone of you that should read these "mind spews" of mine, especially the last one, you should know i had "thougth" it. i wouldn't have gone through with it. just so you know and get all mushy on me and start psychoanalyzing. (damn that was a hard to spell)

The ’Thing’…

How does one know when a ’thing’ has come to an end? Is it when you don’t hurt as much as when it first ended? Or is it when it ends at the very moment one says it’s ended? And why is it, when a ’thing’ does end, your mind starts to have imaginations against that person you had been closed to, but no longer are? And when I say imaginations, I mean imaginations such as: they regret whatever; they lose focus on their lives and live in misery. All their new ‘things’ are a dismal failure. They become fat in your mind, they have dozens of babies all screaming and crying for attention and their tension rises to the same decibel level of the crying, snot-nosed babies.

Sometimes, it’s not always even that. Sometimes you find yourself daydreaming, or laying awake at night with stupid and silly thoughts such as: you bump into each other years later and realize that you’ve always had a ’thing’ for each other, thus the results are you end up back together. Or that you imagine yourself fulfilling all your dreams and becoming something so attractive that the person that ended the ’thing’ regrets ever…ending it. And you feel a bit smug and cocky because now he/she wants you and can’t live without you. How silly. Or, as my dad would say: “Life is not always a dream, m’boy…it can also be a nightmare. Look who I’m married to.”

But when a ’thing’ does end, it’s so heart wrenching and beyond pain that we all wish we could die for that one moment so that we don’t feel that awful…feeling. Are we so tied up in emotions and feelings and need, and desperation that we subject ourselves to so much misery and pain and doubt, and my all time favorite: jealousy? Does all this go back to the philosophies during the Neo-Platonist times, or even to Plato? And what does that mean? Why did I even bother to foot that question? Anyway…I ask, but I expect no answer. I reflect, but the reflection is dull and boggy. Were it not for the reason I even ask, I wouldn’t have bothered…so I ramble on.

More like, I stumble once, fall backwards twice; and all this, for the sake of the ’thing’.And if by now you can’t figure out what that ’thing’ is, then I truly am sorry. Actually…you’d be better off if you did not know the ’thing’.

Originally posted by Fëanor
[b]A dream

Last night, I dreamt that I had visited someone that had a profound affect on my life. And what I mean by that, is that this person, at one time, made me come to realize that, in spite of silly love songs, prosaic poetry, romantic notions, and the overall and general idea of love… love does truly happen. And that’s not to say love never happens in all ways, shape or form, but in the fact that I am not one to subscribe love in its silliest form or idea.

This woman in my dream was, is—besides the obvious fact—someone that I had loved beyond what my heart never before thought, or I, was capable of loving. Don’t get me wrong. I am capable of many things, but emotionally, it was a thing I just did not believe could happen. Unless you were to watch romantic movies or read books where boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy, in the end through sheer luck and many trials later, wins girl back.

So there I was—in my dream that is—at her door many years later; actually I had it at two years later if only to be precise. And when she answered the door, I was taken aback at the change she had undergone. Two years ago she was, young, slender and very beautiful. Now, she looked older, had put on some weight, looked haggard, and had a two year old attached to her hips. And she looked at me in disgust, as if I were one of those door-to-door salesmen or some bible preaching missionary out to save her soul.

And when she said, “What d’you want?” her voice had lost that graceful sounding and melodic tone it once possessed. It sounded screechy and whiney and full of venom. Obviously her memory had failed her or I had changed dramatically so much when she didn’t recognize me. It took her all of a minute to realize who I was. Then her face softened which then went to surprise, and variably ended in shame and embarrassment. Then a big, burly, hairy guy in jeans and plaid shirt walked out the door and looked as if he was going out duck hunting, and I was the duck.

He said some expletive words when he had asked who I was and what I was doing there. I told him that I was there to see a friend and I pointed at the baby carrying woman standing behind him. I was shocked to see an angry face get angrier. They had argued, fought and fussed while the baby cried and I stood there unable to move. She then looked at me; and if I could put in words what her look said, it would have gone like this:

“Why the fukc are you here, Julian? I can’t fukcing believe you kept that stupid promise you made just to see me, and now look. Are you happy? Are you glad to see that my life is a mess, got pregnant six months after I ended it with you because we couldn’t talk anymore, and with the guy you hated ‘cause he kept hitting on me and wouldn’t leave me the fukc alone? And that I got fat because I had a baby? Is this why you're here? To see me like this? Because if you are, then you can go fukc yourself and get your stupid ass back to wherever the fukc you live.”

And with that, she went back inside, slammed the door and I never saw her again. Her man, husband or boyfriend stood there on the porch with his arms crossed looking smug. I shrugged my shoulders and left. When I woke this morning, I realized that I had wished her life to be in the toilet only because of how it ended. To be fair, I don’t wish for anyone’s life to end that way. I’d rather they prosper and go on to fulfill what dreams they have and to live a life full of happiness and love.

Sadly, being human, and having had my love and feelings spited…I had done what; I assume many of you have done—if not, then I’m a bad person—many do when they feel wronged. They wish for all the bad things to fall on their laps only to justify the hurt feelings one feels at being rejected. But I won’t deny a certain feeling of satisfaction just having thought that. But I wouldn’t want it to happen. Welp, coffee is a-calling. [/B]

Originally posted by Fëanor
okay...before anyone of you that should read these "mind spews" of mine, especially the last one, you should know i had "thougth" it. i wouldn't have gone through with it. just so you know and get all mushy on me and start psychoanalyzing. (damn that was a hard to spell)

Originally posted by Fëanor
[b]The ’Thing’…

How does one know when a ’thing’ has come to an end? Is it when you don’t hurt as much as when it first ended? Or is it when it ends at the very moment one says it’s ended? And why is it, when a ’thing’ does end, your mind starts to have imaginations against that person you had been closed to, but no longer are? And when I say imaginations, I mean imaginations such as: they regret whatever; they lose focus on their lives and live in misery. All their new ‘things’ are a dismal failure. They become fat in your mind, they have dozens of babies all screaming and crying for attention and their tension rises to the same decibel level of the crying, snot-nosed babies.

Sometimes, it’s not always even that. Sometimes you find yourself daydreaming, or laying awake at night with stupid and silly thoughts such as: you bump into each other years later and realize that you’ve always had a ’thing’ for each other, thus the results are you end up back together. Or that you imagine yourself fulfilling all your dreams and becoming something so attractive that the person that ended the ’thing’ regrets ever…ending it. And you feel a bit smug and cocky because now he/she wants you and can’t live without you. How silly. Or, as my dad would say: “Life is not always a dream, m’boy…it can also be a nightmare. Look who I’m married to.”

But when a ’thing’ does end, it’s so heart wrenching and beyond pain that we all wish we could die for that one moment so that we don’t feel that awful…feeling. Are we so tied up in emotions and feelings and need, and desperation that we subject ourselves to so much misery and pain and doubt, and my all time favorite: jealousy? Does all this go back to the philosophies during the Neo-Platonist times, or even to Plato? And what does that mean? Why did I even bother to foot that question? Anyway…I ask, but I expect no answer. I reflect, but the reflection is dull and boggy. Were it not for the reason I even ask, I wouldn’t have bothered…so I ramble on.

More like, I stumble once, fall backwards twice; and all this, for the sake of the ’thing’.And if by now you can’t figure out what that ’thing’ is, then I truly am sorry. Actually…you’d be better off if you did not know the ’thing’. [/B]

Originally posted by Coldfire
Yeah I've felt like that before... and more than once. It's perfectly normal to wish the worst on people who have hurt us just when we thought we were finally safe... at least, I think so...

Well I am glad that these were but thoughts. hug

Long had I searched for the answers... and never found them. And like you said, never will. I could say that I want to know, but that would be a lie; I don't want to know the answers to such questions...

Emotional Blackmail V2.0

Unfortunately my emotional blackmail did not end, as I’d hoped it would. It seems I have become enmeshed in its sinuous web and the more I struggled, the more tangled I’d become. The tensile webbing would tighten, causing me to suffocate for breath that would not come. What began as a tiny pin-prick of a headache, ended in a full blown migraine and Excedrin was not written on it. No. There was no relief in sight. No light at the end of that tunnel. No hand reaching out as I’d lose my grip, hanging precariously on the edge of reason and sanity and this thing called life.

My soul screamed, “ENOUGH!” But I stood mute. A prisoner within me in which the warden wore the form of a woman so beguiling that the angels from heaven would give in to temptation and thus assure their fall from grace. Woman! Thy name be treacherous, your cloth blinding, and your voice poisonous. And let us not forget your touch, sharper than a double edged sword. Cut me! Yet you staunch the blood. Close to death, but brought back to life so that I may once again feel your guilt-ridden claws dig deeper and deeper within me. I writhe in agony and you call it ecstasy. I’m in engulfed in pain, and you call it pleasure.
You profess your love, your soul, your body, your heart, your very self to me, but deny me what I long and want: my sanity.

I apologize if I’ve become somewhat poetic. A madness has overcome me; not the King-George-off with-your-head kind of madness. No, more like; I’ve lost what’s left of my sanity and thus the lines between reality and fantasy are blurred. As I’ve said, my day started off as it ended…with emotional blackmail. What I did not know then, I now knew even less. Yesterday, it seemed I was on the verge of recovery. At least where my heart was concerned. But the reasons for my suicidal thoughts appeared where I least expected it. The message was clear, but contradicting. Precise, but uncertain. She wanted all that was, but could not give what she wanted. Hope turned to despair. Despair into stupidity. And I was stupid.

But all was not lost, or so I’d hoped. There but for the grace of God, were my prayers answered, with a cost—of course. And that cost meant one life experience would come to a close, and another would open to possibilities that were within my grasp. If only I’d reach out. And reached out I did. But the hold I had on it were with my fingertips and not the firm all-my-hand sort of grip. It was there, for sure, but weak at best. It would take more than a month for that grip to coalesce, to strengthen, to become firm. Then came the message. A message once hoped for, but was soon forgotten, or anticipated. It was short. No long ode-like phrases, nothing poetic; just short, concise, and to the point.
Or so I thought. Its vagueness left me to wonder the meaning behind it. “I want you. But you can’t have me.”

Shoot me now! A sword! A sword for my heart! A gun is quicker, yes…but far too messy. A knife? Well, I suppose it’d hurt, or sting for a little bit, but I would hate to bleed all over my rug or bed or couch. Pills? Nah. I’d end up vomiting it all up, thus rendering that useless and a waste of time. How about I jump off a building? If only I didn’t have a fear of heights. Drowning? I suppose so, but wouldn’t I panic? Most likely. I guess I could run a hose from the exhaust pipe of my car to the window, and then close the window while I sit inside and let the fumes take me. I’ve heard that’s the most peaceful way to go. You go to sleep, and you never wake up.

Unfortunately there’s a knock on my door and I know who it is; which means I will have to fantasize what I wish to do, even though I never will do it, for later on. Tonight I am to be taken out with my friends to a nudie bar. Hmm…that should be interesting, alcohol and naked women. Okay, now there's a combination I can live with.

Originally posted by Fëanor
we've obviously come full circle, eh, Amber? what comes around, goes around?

Originally posted by Fëanor
[b]Emotional Blackmail V2.0

Unfortunately my emotional blackmail did not end, as I’d hoped it would. It seems I have become enmeshed in its sinuous web and the more I struggled, the more tangled I’d become. The tensile webbing would tighten, causing me to suffocate for breath that would not come. What began as a tiny pin-prick of a headache, ended in a full blown migraine and Excedrin was not written on it. No. There was no relief in sight. No light at the end of that tunnel. No hand reaching out as I’d lose my grip, hanging precariously on the edge of reason and sanity and this thing called life.

My soul screamed, “ENOUGH!” But I stood mute. A prisoner within me in which the warden wore the form of a woman so beguiling that the angels from heaven would give in to temptation and thus assure their fall from grace. Woman! Thy name be treacherous, your cloth blinding, and your voice poisonous. And let us not forget your touch, sharper than a double edged sword. Cut me! Yet you staunch the blood. Close to death, but brought back to life so that I may once again feel your guilt-ridden claws dig deeper and deeper within me. I writhe in agony and you call it ecstasy. I’m in engulfed in pain, and you call it pleasure.
You profess your love, your soul, your body, your heart, your very self to me, but deny me what I long and want: my sanity.

I apologize if I’ve become somewhat poetic. A madness has overcome me; not the King-George-off with-your-head kind of madness. No, more like; I’ve lost what’s left of my sanity and thus the lines between reality and fantasy are blurred. As I’ve said, my day started off as it ended…with emotional blackmail. What I did not know then, I now knew even less. Yesterday, it seemed I was on the verge of recovery. At least where my heart was concerned. But the reasons for my suicidal thoughts appeared where I least expected it. The message was clear, but contradicting. Precise, but uncertain. She wanted all that was, but could not give what she wanted. Hope turned to despair. Despair into stupidity. And I was stupid.

But all was not lost, or so I’d hoped. There but for the grace of God, were my prayers answered, with a cost—of course. And that cost meant one life experience would come to a close, and another would open to possibilities that were within my grasp. If only I’d reach out. And reached out I did. But the hold I had on it were with my fingertips and not the firm all-my-hand sort of grip. It was there, for sure, but weak at best. It would take more than a month for that grip to coalesce, to strengthen, to become firm. Then came the message. A message once hoped for, but was soon forgotten, or anticipated. It was short. No long ode-like phrases, nothing poetic; just short, concise, and to the point.
Or so I thought. Its vagueness left me to wonder the meaning behind it. “I want you. But you can’t have me.”

Shoot me now! A sword! A sword for my heart! A gun is quicker, yes…but far too messy. A knife? Well, I suppose it’d hurt, or sting for a little bit, but I would hate to bleed all over my rug or bed or couch. Pills? Nah. I’d end up vomiting it all up, thus rendering that useless and a waste of time. How about I jump off a building? If only I didn’t have a fear of heights. Drowning? I suppose so, but wouldn’t I panic? Most likely. I guess I could run a hose from the exhaust pipe of my car to the window, and then close the window while I sit inside and let the fumes take me. I’ve heard that’s the most peaceful way to go. You go to sleep, and you never wake up.

Unfortunately there’s a knock on my door and I know who it is; which means I will have to fantasize what I wish to do, even though I never will do it, for later on. Tonight I am to be taken out with my friends to a nudie bar. Hmm…that should be interesting, alcohol and naked women. Okay, now there's a combination I can live with. [/B]

Originally posted by Coldfire
I guess so Julian hug

wow.... harshness...

later Amber...gotta run. can't believe you read all that 😄

hug

Originally posted by Fëanor
well...there's more to it. but to be fair, i'm at fault as well.

later Amber...gotta run. can't believe you read all that 😄

hug

It was the strangest thing; not having been at a strip club in a long while, I was overwhelmed with an odd sensation of feelings: ambivalence and excitement. Joey and Harold were oblivious to everything but for the scantily clad women that outnumbered the men three to one. And to say the girls all around us were scantily clad was in of itself an understatement. The uniform of the day for those serving rounds were stilettos, dental floss with a small patch in front that passed for a thong, and small shiny nipple covers.

It smacked of sex, and it was every where.
We took our places at three empty spots at the bar that fronted the raised stage behind it. Already there were girls up there dancing and frolicking at various stages of nudity—the marquee did say, “Live! Nude girls! No cover…two drink minimum”—who were grasping and provocatively writhing on, next to, or fondling chrome-like poles. The innuendo and the symbolism were not lost on me.

Now normally, the excitement and anticipation that were on Joey and Harold’s faces wouldn’t have bothered me, but they seemed too excited as if they knew something was about to happen, and that bothered me. Without skipping a beat, the three girls on stage had finished their set and three new ones entered as they exited. Oddly enough, one looked very familiar but I couldn’t place her.

“Oh, God damn!” whooped Joey.
“Oh, shiiit!” hissed, squeaked Harold: I took that to mean the girls were extremely hotter than the last ones from before. Is that possible?

The one girl—I will say she did in fact looked very nice, sexy nice, nice round ‘phat’ bottom, curvy hips, breasts the size of melons…uh? Where was I? Oh, yeah—the one girl that looked familiar sexily sashayed, in rhythm to the blaring song being played, to where we three sat. Then it dawned on me. It was:
“Marianna!” I said, to no one in particular. Joey and Harold nodded their collective heads lustily in unison. Marianna. The friend to Harold’s girlfriend, Jennifer. Marianna. The one who was at the movie on a Friday night more than a week—or was it two weeks?—ago. Marianna. The one who, through the conniving of Harold and Jennifer, they tried to set me up with during a luncheon. Marianna. The one that talked to me most of that night later that day up at the roof of Harold’s apartment. And who knew much of my situation, gloomy and sad as it was; who is now on stage before me—or us—dancing slowly and sensually and sexually and…and…in all her glory.

If I didn’t know her intimately before, I sure the hell do now. I felt flushed and, for no reason whatsoever, embarrassed. Twenty minutes after her set had finished, Marianna came to where we had sat at the bar. She was all smile, and had more clothing than when she was on stage, but not much clothing. If you can call spiked boots, a thong and a lacey, I suppose, bra…clothing. She had with her a bottle of something: champagne? Wine? Bubbly?

She didn’t say a thing; instead she grabbed my shirt and led me away from Joey and Harold. If I could describe the way they had looked and/or acted towards me, it would have been this: a wink, and a smile. All that I heard from Harold was: “It’s on us, bro. Enjoy.” Marianna led me to an empty, dimly lit room that had a plush couch and a small round coffee table, obviously not for a coffee. I saw a camera above and a mirror on one wall. Most likely a two way mirror with a burly, bald security guy behind it, to make sure the girls are protected and not hurt. This room were for private dances, lap dances to be exact, and only for those that can afford it, and quite likely, nude lap dances. Mine was a gift, a present and more important, free.

Soft, soothing, music was piped in from somewhere. Marianna said very little. All that she wore, other than what she had on, were a smile. A lovely smile. I felt nervous. I felt…trapped? Within fifteen minutes of dancing before me, Marianna was completely nude. I felt nervous. My breathing became funny. I shifted on the couch. And I felt…trapped? Also, I felt a one quarter turgidness in my member. I felt nerv…oh, you get it! She then straddled me, throwing her head round, fondling her breasts, gyrating her hips, rubbing me…okay, you get the picture.

So, I leaned back, drank the offered champagne, and all her naked gloriness. I had an hour of her. An hour I would have enjoyed, had it not for the one thing that happened. And it happened ten minutes of her mock-sex later. I had an epiphany. That epiphany had brought my one-half full hardness back to near one-eighth limpness. After I had asked her to stop—unbelievable, isn’t it?—she had asked me what was the matter. For the next hour I explained to her everything: the emotional blackmail, my failure at love, my loss, and that I myself had used emotional blackmail on someone I had held near and dear to my heart, but is no longer mine to hold. I felt…pathetic?

That was my epiphany. I, who was a victim of an emotional crime, had committed the very same crime also. Marianna was nothing if anything but very understanding as she sat there, naked, listening quietly to my story. It was as if I were in therapy. Granted that most therapists aren’t as beautiful as she, or naked. Hmm…a naked therapist. Now that’d be something. She took every word in without judgment or question. When she spoke, she spoke kindly and sympathetically. I told her about the confused state of my last love, which also left me confused. Three messages she sent me, and in return, I sent her one back, only to realize that I was just as vague and confusing as Leanne was when she sent me hers.

It seemed she wanted to hold me, to coddle me in her arms, to give me assurances and a feeling of warmth and security. But the room was beginning to fill with the scent of sex. Her sex, which caused my member to go one quarter hard. Time to go I thought. So I got up and thanked her for listening and for a lot of other things. The story of Marianna and her being a stripper will come another day. As we walked out, after she dressed of course, she escorted me back to where Joey and Harold waited. I put on my best I’ve-just-had-the-best-lap-dance-anyone-could-ever-have face and smiled satisfactorily.

She gave me a warm hug and a kiss on my cheek, waved teasingly goodbye, and then she was gone.
“So, was it good?” asked Joey
I smiled and smiled and smiled.
“Yeah.” She's going to make someone a very lucky guy, I thought.

I had dreamt I was at a funeral and the day was gray, cloudy, and gloomy. The thing was I had no idea whose funeral I was there for, or for that matter, why I was even there. All were dressed in black and,—as is the case in most funerals—all were very somber and sad. Not that I’ve ever been to a funeral where everyone was happy or dressed in bright colors, granted I’ve only been to two funerals in the whole of my life, but I’ve always assumed black to be the color of choice…at least in that occasion…and sadness the preferred emotional state.

It would be an odd thing to see someone happy and brightly dressed to attend a funeral when everyone else would be the opposite of said anomaly.

So there I was, surrounded by people I didn’t know, listening to the soliloquy boringly said by a priest, and wondering why the hell I was there. I looked at all these people trying to ascertain my place here and how I am apart of their lives, when I saw this man waving at me. Not the full blown kind of wave that frantically tries to get one’s attention, but a wave nonetheless. Good God! It was Sylvester Stallone. At first I wasn’t sure if he was waving at me or someone else.

I looked around. Nope. It was me. So I waved back, meekly and nervously. Weirdly enough, when I returned the wave, Mr. Stallone nodded his head cocksure and smiled. Actually, more like the sneering smile he’s almost somewhat famous for; where the lips curl in an odd sort of way that’s almost humanly impossible to mimic by ‘us’ average humans. It was an odd combination: Sly Stallone and a funeral. What was the significance to that? Where was the message?

I’ve read—I suppose I did, if memory serves—that when one has dreams of death or dying or, in my case, of funerals, it doesn’t necessarily mean a physical death as we know it to be in the real world; but rather it’s the death of one’s emotional, spiritual and psychological mental state. A need—subconsciously—for change. So, maybe it was a funeral, or death, for my old emotional and mental state into something else that has yet to be born.

And all it needed was a push, a spark of something else, or a slap in the face. Or maybe to let Marianna finish her lap dance. Word of advice (to men): never have an epiphany when you have a fully naked woman straddle you for a lap dance in a semi-dark room.

But why was Sylvester Stallone in my dreams also?

I don't know what to think about your "Friday Night at a Strip Club…and an Epiphany " ... jsut thought I'd tell you that...as sort of useless feedback, you know...

Originally posted by Bardock42
I don't know what to think about your "Friday Night at a Strip Club…and an Epiphany " ... jsut thought I'd tell you that...as sort of useless feedback, you know...

Originally posted by Fëanor
but you say so much...don't stop now.

Well, it does come directly from the deep of my heart...

so how deep is your love? is your love? i really need to know.

Originally posted by Fëanor
so how deep is your love? is your love? i really need to know.

Well..what is love?

that's what i'm trying to figure out. when i do, i'll let you know.

Originally posted by Fëanor
that's what i'm trying to figure out. when i do, i'll let you know.

So, is that Marianna a real person? If yes...give me her number. If no...well...do it anyways.

Originally posted by Bardock42
So, is that Marianna a real person? If yes...give me her number. If no...well...do it anyways.

*dials number...hears ring. phone picks up*

Marianna: Hello?
Me: Hey...It's me.
Marianna: Hey! I didn't think you'd call.
Me: Well, I'm actually calling about a friend...wants to know if he can have your number.
Marianna: Really?
Me: Yeah.
Marianna: Is he French? Cause I love French men in berets.
Me: Actually....no. He's German.

*Phone clicks*