My son the writer posted this on his blog. He has been a writer since he was a wee lad of 2. I was his first secretary, editor, and critic. I find him marvelous and original. I think you will as well.
Sometimes I hate my dreams.
Not the ones that everyone encourages me to follow, like go to college and get a job that makes more than 12k a year. Not the ones that “those who care” hear and react as though I want to try shooting heroin into my urethra, like try to get a novel published and make a living as a writer. I’m talking about the ones that happen after I close my eyes and hope I wake up on time to catch the bus for work.
I’ve had some fairly traumatizing dreams. I’ve been drugged with a parasite whose effects mimic opiates and acid, but the side effects include minor to severe decomposition. I’ve wandered underground tombs where my friends lose their minds and light each other on fire and speak with mold and moss doppelgangers. I lived in a world where sprout cock (a disease where…
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