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2006-04-08 - 10:39 a.m.

DREAMS OF THE MEAT STORM

Wow. I just had the strangest dream.

I dreamt that I spent an afternoon with the ever-charming Dusty Scott, a.k.a., Pork Tornado. As you may or may not know, he's a swell guy, so this was one choice dream although it did not involve the scrubbing of any monkeys. In fact, this dream mirrored real-life, as even in my sleep I felt certain that I was ruining any chances I might've had of making him feel romantical in my general direction by being a schmuck. Insecure, even in my sleep.

The day began with an art class, in which both myself and Dusty were students. We were to draw a female figure for our no-nonsense Japanese instructor, and I finished very quickly. (I cartoon. I draw fast.) In the dream, my skills went wonky, and I ended up with an extremely muscled figure that Dusty and the instructor giggled over. I was okay with that, because it gave me an opportunity to talk directly to beloved Dusty while using humor as a shield. He spoke openly to me and with a big smile, and at one point he comes very close to me and stands by my desk talking to the instructor and I notice a trio of warts in the pit of his left knee. I absolutely do not care about them; in fact it endears him to me even more. I remember being just delighted that he is standing so close, warts and all.
The scene changes to after class, and everybody's at lunch. There's a specific table by the window that is reserved for Dusty, and everyone awaits his arrival in the room as if waiting for The Fonz. It's like high school, and Dusty's THE MAN. He is charming, funny, and everyone likes him. I don't remember there being any food...only that it is here that I realize I am wearing shorts and I'm horrified because I am as white as snow at the leg and don't want him to notice. Turns out, he could care less, which is a running theme throughout, kind as he is.
So next we're getting out of my truck at an elderly lady's house where Dusty has agreed to babysit her Andy Milonakis-esque grandson and toddler granddaughter. I am staying because I'm Dusty's transportation...and because I'm HANGING OUT WITH THE FONZ FOR GOD'S SAKE. After the lady is gone, we laugh a bit at the gaudy German decor in the house, and we chat some about this and that. We're all relaxed and friendly, so I feel comfortable enough to spill my guts and confess that I began to REAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLY like him right around the time he began to date The Skirt. He laughs along with me at my bad timing and resulting misfortune. I notice the Skirt has been absent the entire day and ask if she is still on the menu. He emphatically affirms this, and waxes poetic about her greatness for a spell. I secretly hate this, but I don't let him see that...there's no need to be both out of luck and pitiful all at once. I'm already wearing the stupid-ass shorts. I can see that Dusty likes me and appreciates my sense of humor, and it's a relief. I realize that "just friends" is going to be just fine...because at least I have his attention and, from this angle, I'm in the right position should The Skirt suddenly become fat, unfaithful, bitchy, or all three.
Dusty dozes while I putter around the old lady's garden, then the woman returns and pays Dusty for his trouble. He tries to share the pay, offering me a ten and a five, but I won't accept it. I realize that we never saw the kids once during the entire time we spent at the old lady's house, but it doesn't matter. All is apparently well, but next it becomes obvious that the old woman wants to visit and doesn't want to be left alone. Although I respect the elderly and all, I'm just not feeling like sitting and listening to geriatric prattle. I'm wanting to get out of there. Dusty, on the other hand, is loathe to hurt her feelings, and it takes us an eternity to get out of the driveway because she's still talking and he's leaning out the window, her hand in his, listening intently. He just such a good guy. That's home training, right there. As we're finally leaving, Dusty is in the passenger's seat facing me, smiling and talking. I reach up to scratch my eye and feel a little something on my skin as I do. Dusty delightedly informs me that the thing I feel is a big juicy zit, and that I've just broken it open with my nail, and that it's "wet" and that he can very clearly see it. He is smiling very broadly as I die just a little bit more. He thinks it's wildly funny that I am so horrified. I play it off, using the "just friends" groove to prevent myself from dying of shame on the spot. It does not work. I still want to die. And that's about it.

That was a pretty well-constructed dream. Usually, they make no sense. I'm wearing a hat made of ham, Nicholas Cage appears before me holding a grape popsicle and shouting The Pledge of Allegiance, and then all my teeth crumble. Not often do I have dreams that can be told like a story, as this seems to be.

If I could get the man who is truly interested in me to appear in these dreams, we might be able to do a little better than an eye zit. However, he refuses to show up. Maybe it's the shorts. Speaking of him, my sister seems to think he is the real source of the feelings that produced this dream. I bet she's right. He never made me nervous when we were just friends...but that's another entry alltogether.

Thanks for the date, Pork. Buy yourself something pretty with that 15 bucks. And FYI, I do not get eye zits, dude. So stop with the grinning.


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