I swear I searched that fucking dryer three times. THREE TIMES and my black hoodie was not in there.
This morning I looked and there it was laughing at me.
Also I'm being held without cause in one of the Republic's mercy camps peppered throughout the southwest. According to the guards, I get to make my choice for euthanasia tomorrow at 7 p.m.!!! Either I get to choose an unfortunate accident which is beyond my captor's control or I simply accept the overdose of barbituates.
God I love our overbearing and invasive government, truly saints among men. Who needs habeas corpus? LOL!
Anyway my enthusiasm is being whittled away and soon enough I'll be back into the regular, boring cycle of my life. This doesn't mean by any stretch of the imagination that a waning of my enthusiasm means the end of Asbury Park by Night. Just the creative aspect will go on the back burner in the hopes of seeing what the other participants do with the materials presented to them every other Friday night.
Place your right hand on the mirror and whisper "I accept." If done correctly, in the mirror there will be a faint image of a fleshless infant with pitch black eyes. He will stare directly into your soul and you will hear the buzzing of flies and nervous whispering. You will not be able to make out the image in the mirror but you will be filled with unspeakable terror.
The infant will ask you five questions about events that have occurred within your life. His voice will sound like the rubbing of sandpaper and will be devoid of all emotion. For each question that you answer incorrectly, one of your five senses will be consumed. For each question that is answered correctly, you will be able to recite the name of someone you know. That person will be found dead the next morning, after a night of unimagninable horror, with their flesh removed and their eyes missing.
There was a partial mannequin set out on the sidewalk. The face was blank, it had one arm and the rest was just torso. Its arm was twisted over its head with the hand touching the forehead. When I was the only one looking at the figure, a face would slowly emerge from the silvery plastic with a maniacal grin.
Turns out that the dummy didn't really enjoy the way I talked to myself with a weird, high-pitched voice that I call my Spot voice. It would menace me when I least expected it and always when I was alone. Fortunately it couldn't move and had to wait for me to get within distance of its arm for any interaction. When I did walk past, it grabbed my arm giving me the most evil grin that stretched from ear to ear.
I grabbed its arm and swung the mannequin's body over my head smashing it against the asphalt. There wasn't any victory or glory, just broken plastic.
News travels fast in dreams and I learned that there was a gallery opening up the street on a Friday, March 10th. Part of its inaugural exhibition was featuring my artwork from college. The elderly east Indian who looked like Dhalsim from Street Fighter II didn't get my permission.
I was flattered and dismayed that my old drawings were going to be put on exhibit using ten foot by ten foot canvases. When I arrived at the gallery I saw one of the pictures was a blown-up reproduction of one of my doodles of Zed making him look like an emo Calvin Klein advertisement. This is when the realization of failure overwhelmed me and left me with no choice but to quit.
As quickly as I made that decision, I had some common sense where my brain thought, "This was long ago. Only you remember it. Let it die."
This made me happy.
I don't remember much else from the dream.
