I fucked up today.
I wasn’t paying attention when I bought orange juice.
Later, I unscrewed the cap on the container to pour, then stared in mute horror as what I can only describe as an ‘applesauce-ish-ly’ thick ooze fell out.
It didn’t drip out, it didn’t pour out… it didn’t even slide out.
That crazy shit fell out with the same grim finality I’ve seen livestock relieve themselves.
I quickly checked the package.
“High Pulp”.
Fuck.
Fuck.
An hour later, having downed the freakish, orange swill, I could barely blink due to the raw, undiluted energy coursing through my veins. I had to admit… that stuff was like… gelatinized Mountain Dew.
Motherfucking potent, yo.
Vividly do I still recall the times, during childhood, where I downed a bottle of Mountain Dew and found myself utterly incapable of sleep for 48 hours.
I knew Orange Juice had a fair amount of sugar, but now I can understand why it’s a key ingredient in homemade napalm.
It’s an ongoing endeavor to document my dreams, and the most common are the ones where floating faces speak to me from the darkness. As I’ve said before, it’s rare for there to be any cohesion, and on the occasions that I think I recognize a face, the face is often saying something I know for a fact someone else said. Of course, sometimes they’re parroting back words I’ve said myself, or thought to myself privately. I record all of it here, jumbled and out of order, because to impose any organization or grouping would quickly become it’s own endeavor, and not one I care to tackle.
Thus, the list continues.
“We think she looks the most like you.”
“Find me a dead cat.”
“My NEW WINCHESTER.”
“You could shame a Nightingale.”
“Your ass makes me believe there is a god.”
“It’s safer, isn’t it?”
“You say the hottest shit.”
“What’s a rider queen?”
“That meant more to me than I expected.”
“That’s a strong beard.”
“The beard is dead.”
“Make her sing.”
“Honestly? I think they can smell your soul.”
“Take your magic elsewhere, holy man.”
“Love and hate are horns on the same goat.”