FEBRUARY 20, 2019

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abandoned houseLast night, I dreamed of someone I’ve never met before in my life. Again.

We were both looking after several wayward and lost Middle School-aged kids inside an big, old drafty and dark Victorian type house. It was clear that I had strong feelings for this lady, and as we talked, it was clear she also reciprocated these feelings as well.

The dream ended like so many of these kind of dreams end: I turn around but for a second, and when I look back, she’s gone. Vanished. I always wake up with a profound sense of loneliness. This morning was no different.

The last real meaningful relationship I was in was five years ago. I’ve never felt that having a relationship is what makes me whole; I am made whole and find meaning solely in Christ Jesus, my Lord and Master. However, I have never experienced such profound organic happiness than when I was in that relationship. The reason being, is because we both served God together. We worshiped and volunteered at church together, we faced issues together, we laughed together, we were open with each other…things just never felt as fulfilling as it did when were were working in tandem together. To borrow a despised bit of Christianese, we were “doing life” together.

It’s been five years now. Five years since I lost that kind of organic happiness. Most normal people seem to be able to move on; I tend to find myself paralyzed at the thought of asking somebody for coffee and talk, even if to make a connection on a friend level.

Again, I don’t think that a relationship will complete me as a person. But, that still doesn’t eliminate the profound sense of loneliness that seems crushing at times. I think either my subconsciousness is trying to tell me something, or…I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if I’m being punished for wanting to love someone. The way things ended certainly makes it look that way.

If this is my fate in this life, so be it. I follow Christ Jesus, whether alone or with someone. I just wish my dreams would stop mocking me like that. It’s not nice.

::END TRANSMISSION::

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Dream time again…

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spoonful of chunky peanut butterI was exploring the ruins of an ancient Mayan temple with the cast members of That 70s Show, when we come across a room filled with all the separate ingredients to make an infinite amount of tacos. We begin to excavate the room of the delicious taco ingredients, when we are beset upon by the room’s guardians — the NBA All-Star Team. They engage us with a game of keep away with a tablespoon filled with chunky peanut butter. The game was getting heated up, when I had to wake up and use the facilities.

Unfortunately, I didn’t rejoin the game afterwards.

::END TRANSMISSION::

Nightmare…

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nightmareLast night I was attacked. In my sleep, again. I had a very oppressive dream involving being in a dark, dank dilapidated house, watching television with someone I didn’t know but seemed to have struck up a friendship with. Then said person took me down to the basement of the house, which was much more dank and dark and foreboding than the main floor. There was a pile of several pieces from various G. I. Joe action figures (not the dolls, but the smaller action figures sold in the 1980s and 90s), and suggested what would be really, really fun would be to create new men out of these pieces. So, I began putting some together, while the guy slipped into the shadows. I stood up, went looking for him; he tried to go invisible, but I was able to see him despite the subterfuge, which is when he began shrieking and taking on a look more of Golum from the Lord of the Rings. I grabbed hold of him in a bear hug from behind, and began rebuking him in the name of Jesus, which lead to him deforming into some kind of blob-like thing, before melting completely into the floor. I then woke up, feeling like some kind of heavy, hot wool blanket was pulled from me. It was 2:10am. I then began wondering if Nick or anyone from the congregation experienced anything like that as well, or if it was just me…

::END TRANSMISSION::

From The Dream Files…

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alone on a stoopI found myself smitten by a special lady last night. It was while I was in the middle of fighting off an invasion of alien squid creatures. One of the horde had eaten her cat, and she wasn’t happy about it. We managed to beat them back, and as the last of the tentacle faced invaders left, we looked at each other, realizing we may have meet our significant other.

But alas, that very same night, as we sat on the porch, splitting a root beer and telling each other about ourselves, I opened up and told her about my struggles with clinical depression, laying out everything, my flaws and broken-ness, just being as straightforward about what she was getting into. There was silence when I finished. Without saying a word, she stood up, and walked away into the misty night.

Even in my dreams, I end up alone, it seems. Stupid subconscious.

::END TRANSMISSION::

An ounce of prevention, and all that…

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zombiesZombie apocalypse. Trying to convince everyone that using the quiet and far more efficient and effective laser rifles would be highly beneficial, as noise would attract the zombies, and using these would cut down on the risks. But no, big bad manly Alpha men wanna use their big, bad — and very loud — rifles and guns on the undead, despite the swarms they attract. Wankers.

::END TRANSMISSION::

Into the Carnival of Souls, surrendered to the fight…

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eric claytonLast night, I dreamed that the spectre of 1996-era Eric Clayton was assisting me with grocery shopping. He was decked out in his classic stage costume, the black robe with white painted head and shiny bobble-thing on his forehead.

He would float in front of my cart, motioning when I needed to put something into the cart. He would say anything, just point while staring at me with that mournful gaze, peering through my soul.

I have no idea what this may mean. If anything. I’m fairly certain this is just my brain messing with me via the subconscious. This is, however, the first appearance of Eric Clayton in my dreams, joining the ranks of Dave Mustaine of Megadeth and the members of Anthrax.

::END TRANSMISSION::

Ice Cream Dreams and such

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ice creme dreamAbout an hour ago, I found myself in a strange and alien parallel world. While having the same outward appearance as the world I normally inhabit, the weather was noticeably cooler than normal, while the sun was out and the people were about, as if this was a balmy spring day. I had to don a heavy jacket.

The people. Oh, the people. They looked like me, they acted like me, and they spoke, emoted and and carried on in typical human fashion like me. Only they weren’t like me.

No, they were different. The biggest indicator being that, unlike my skin, their skin was made of something like a sugar cone, with a layer of milk chocolate on the inside, like a Drumstick cone. And their insides were filled with vanilla ice cream.

These were people who were made of ice cream, with sugar cones for skin.

I don’t know how I got to this world. Transported by some outer force, slipped through a rip in the space/time continuum, some kind of vortex created by whatever coincidental combination of…something; I don’t know. All I do know is, when I was there, I was investigating the murder of one of these…beings’ citizenry.

His body was found, torso ripped open, the sugar cone-y pieces lying by his corpse, and all the ice cream forcibly removed. Since it was cooler there, the bits of his insides that I could see splattered around him weren’t melted and pooling, but the effect was still the same. Face frozen in horror, a giant gaping hole where his chest should have been, and a void where his ice cream innards should have been.

It was hard for me to take this all seriously, I know. But, whether bizarre ice cream beings or not, this still was a murder. I couldn’t let this monster get away.

Problem was, the beings there knew I wasn’t one of them. They sensed that I didn’t really belong in their world. As a result, no one would help me in the investigation. Not one of them would even acknowledge my presence there, when I was asking questions pertaining to the murder. Even when others started turning up murdered in the same heinous way, they turned their back on me.

Why would they do that? Something was killing all of them, and getting away with it, and THEY WON’T LISTEN TO ME. Why? It’s right in front of their faces. Under their noses. They constantly step in the ice creamy guts of their fallen brethren in the streets, willfully ignorant.

THEY’RE ALL GOING TO DIE, AND THEY WON’T LET ME HELP THEM FIND AND CATCH THE THING KILLING THEM.

…it’s horrible.

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