Back in 2002, this website was about sex, sex, and more sex. That was then. This is about two decades later. Apparently it is now primarily about enchiladas. I can dig it, but remember, some of us still get wet.
One subject that is very much out of my comfort zone is talking about dreams in which children are involved. Sick children, in particular, bum me out. Having one myself? No thank you. I have this perfect, round little beaver that is hairless and soft as a baby's bottom. You only wish you could get close enough to smell the perfumed aroma of what I've got going on inside. No sir or madam, I cannot help you. I am way out of your league.
There is this dream I sometimes have where this disgusting little twerp in a wheelchair is coming towards me. And the damned chair is squeaking and groaning as he works the wheels with his thin, sickly little arms (with like no muscular development AT ALL). Since I am back working as a camp counselor in the dream, that is bad. I'm now a highly overpaid executive assistant who delegates everything by nine am and then goes out and gets her nails done. Girlfriend, can we talk?
So, this little fucker, he finally wheels over to me and I make a face, which is what you do when you want someone to go away. He won't go away, this kid with his sickly no-muscular-development-at-all arms. He's just sitting in that old wheelchair, looking up at me with sad eyes, and then he begins to hold his hand out. Thankfully, we were at the end of the old swimming pier at the summer camp where I used to work (and get SO much dick it was unbelievable). I just pushed the kid off the dock and he sank like a stone in that shitty chair.
I woke up from this dream feeling good about what I'd done to proactive resolve a problem that had become current. That soon faded. I realized it had been a dream.
Now I was wet and really feeling kind of embarrassed about that because my friends Daphne and Buttercup were in my waterbed with me. I am not a lesbian. I get dick three or four times a day. I don't need to go down to the fish market anytime soon, thank you very much. Although it would help resolve the accidental pregnancy issue that sometimes comes up when you get unprotected dick three or four times a day. We'll put that on the back burner for now. Maybe come back to it later on if I feel like circling back.
I think I can get out of this situation, but I have Daphne on one side of me and Buttercup on the other. And Daphne's finger is perilously close to my sugar hill gang. She wakes up and her finger goes right there, and I mean right there was where it went. Daphne smiles. Buttercup lifts her purdy little head with her blonde hair all askew.
"Someone's wet," Daphne tells Buttercup with a shit-eating-grin.
"You know what that means."
"Yeah. Come on Taylor, time to party."
And at that moment I realized that I was Taylor Swift, which meant that I was still in the dream. Or was I? Because when I woke up, I was back at the end of the swimming pier at summer camp, looking down at that pathetic boy in his broken down old wheelchair motionless at the bottom of the lake.
Now I know what is real and what isn't.