January 04, 2006

Lukewarm Slimy Ice Cubes, Frida Kahlo's Neglected Vagina and No Place to Sit Down

Somebody spilled a bunch of ice back stage, a whole bunch of ice. Where did they fucking get so much ice? There is no way we could ever use this much ice, it's everywhere. How many bags did they order anyway? This must be at least tree tons of ice. Is it part of the show? I don't get it, why the fuck does everything backstage have to be covered in ice? I can't even find a place to sit. I'm gonna find someone and get to the bottom of this ice shit, somebody needs to clean this up before it melts. Where the fuck is everyone? How come nobody told me about the ice? This isn't even the right kind of ice, these cubes are way to big to fit in the golden goblets we ordered. This ice is bullshit. It's not even cold. Who orders three tons of lukewarm oversized ice cubes. Is somebody filming some kind of movie here without my consent? These ice cubes are scratching my legs and getting me all wet. Great, now I got one in my shoe. What the fuck? Ice cubes aren't supposed to move around like this. Get out of my shoe you ice cube organism thing. I'm going out back to go for a walk. This place sure does look like the big field out behind my old middle school. Jesus Christ I wish I could find a place to sit down that wasn't all covered in LUKEWARM SLIMY ICE CUBES

Down on the corner there's a little competition going on to see who was San Francisco's most annoying woman. The competition is fierce, there are PETA women, NOW women all kinds of women representing various bullshit. One is a very hairy faced white woman dressed in african garb, still another has that Frida Kahlo look going on, she definitely smells like old ethnic food and neglected vagina. Oh man, I DID NOT want to SEE that neglected vagina. It looks like an old gray pastrami sandwich. why is it so HUGE? Are those COB WEBS?

I certainly wish I had my rifle to put an end to this poetry slam once and for all. Spirituality my ass, you're all a bunch of ugly cunts and no man would ever want you, that's why you hate men, because they hate you or at the very least vomit at the idea of your naked bodies. Wow, I just about vomited right then.

Why the fuck is there ice everywhere?

I need to sit down.

5 comments:

Wendy said...

whoa, this one was kinda intense.

Have you always been able to recall your dreams so vividly or do you write them down upon wakening?

Anonymous said...

you feel temperature in your dreams!? my senses in my dreams are usually quite limited- sight and hearing, no smell or taste, and touch is usually limited to internal reactions--gut wrenching and stuff like that.

Anonymous said...

i HATE your comment moderation. i miss instant gratification. booooooooooo

merkley??? said...

wendy,
no i havent always been able to remember them vividly, only when i write them down first thing in the morning which is the entire purpose for this section of my blog -- shame to let that stuff slip into oblivion i think. even when on the dream journal schedule it can be quite a battle of concentration, focus, patience and keeping very calm to be able to retrace back and retreive details while on the very verge of sleep in the morning.
it hink it's worth it though.

this mornings dream is an example of not being able to retrieve the larger story that happend which is why i wrote the two short segments with a bit ore laborious detail.

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gaby,
i'm not sure how much actual FEELING i have -- maybe it was the lack of sensitivity to temperature that made me default to thinking the ice cubes were luke warm. i'm gonna try to see if i can feel some temperatures.

Anonymous said...

When the Rohypnol wears off, the ice in my dreams always melts and reforms into the limited edition beef stroganoff flavor jello that conveniently overpowers the scent of Frida's neglected vagina, and instantly turns every seatless surface into a mushy recliner that provided the right pelvic propulsion can also serve as a self sustaining form of slip and slide transportation from vivid dreams to dull nightmares.