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I am not myself.
I feel this completely as I, for lack of another word, enter the dream.
I know not what I am, but I am not myself.

"Well, ello then friend. How are you?"

"Fuck Off, will you?"

"Well, he was a bit weird, wasn't he?"

I dunno where I am. It's like cartoonish, really.
The ground is asphalt, and the wall surrounding (The Walls are Everywhere)
are red brick, graffitied all over. The people are mixed in, hand-drawn cartoonish figures, graphic computer-made people, realistic, yet still not real-
figures of all sorts really.

If This Goes On—

I feel like I'm on a quest or contest of some sort. I am walking with a large group of boys.
Everything is tense, no one is talking.
A gun shot comes out of nowhere, shoots a boy near me. He crumples to the asphalt.

And this I wake...

"Houston I have a problem."

Houston takes a moment. I am floating in space, safe in my space suit. In front of me a glimmering silver piece of test equipment floats. I squeeze the actuating trigger again and again but nothing happens.

"State your problem Colonel Transitional." Houston is cool and calm, a reassuring voice from the ether.

"The damned thing won't work!"

"Roger that. We read your problem as onion failure."

Onion failure?

"Roger that. The HTM-42 is powered by a single vidalia onion. An dry onion leads to failure in our simulations. Yours is insufficiently juicy."

"Uh, Okay. Guess I'll run down to earth and get a fresh one."

"Stinky, rotten onions work better Colonel."

"Roger that Houston." I beam down to earth, arriving at my old high school. I'm greeted by a very young woman, whom I recognize as Christina Aguilera. "Take me to your onions." She nods knowingly.

I follow her through the crowded hallways full of sloppily dressed students and uniformed marching band members. Finally, outside the gym we meet the produce traders. I purchase the oldest, most rotten onion imaginable, decayed almost to the point of disolution. Onion juice runs over my fingertips. Moments later I am back in orbit, in my suit with only the HTM-42 and twinkling stars. I load the onion into the magazine. This time the device triggers, spouting brilliant orange flames.

The dreaded alarm clock intervenes. I awake, realizing that I must be really whacked.

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