DREAMIN'...WITH PRESCRIPTION DRUGS

 

Last night I had the craziest dream:

I was throwing a massive party at my mother's house in Connecticut, and all of my friends were there. Adult libations flowed freely, the air was thick with the waft of copious weed consumption, loud music played, and good vibes were all around. After a good mingle among the attendees, I took a break in the dining room and began to roll a huge blunt of the kind my old friend Gordon used to call a "scoober."

As I smoked the scoober, who should press his shirtless pecs against the window but Jason Momoa? I got up and let him into the house, only to discover that he was completely naked, except for being covered with runnels of crude oil. I did not ask why he was in such a state, and he suddenly presented me with a huge fish for me to cook later. That was nice, but considering that naked Jason Momoa was present, I had to find my dear friend Cheri and let her meet him. I made my way through the masses but could not find Cheri.

While looking for Cheri, the party suddenly came to a halt as all ceased activity and formed a line to pay respects to a kid next door who was dying of cancer, and our coming to see him was to be considered as his pirate-themed "going away party." The kid's house was an artsy abode whose interior featured Escheresque stairways and angles that required full concentration and great physical dexterity to navigate.

I never made it to see the dying child, as I ran into Cheri and told her of the presence of naked Jason Momoa. I directed her in his direction, but that's where the dream ended and I awoke to face the day.

Thank you, Gabapentin, for another night of weird-assed dreaming!

 

THE LIQUOR MAN RIDES AGAIN

 

Wednesday morning’s car service pickup to dialysis saw the return of the “Liquor Man,” and he was in quite a talkative state. He went on at length wondering how I can live in a neighborhood so “loaded with beautiful American women without your dick falling off.” (He lives in Brighton Beach, among “beautiful Russian women who will let you eat their ass.”) He also wondered how he would do if he printed up more of his calling card and stood in front of my building handing them out, but he was too far into his delusions to accept that the hot 20-somethings in Park Slope likely have zero interest in a fat, balding, flagrantly horny 50-year-old with a face like a bulldog‘s ass. This one-sided conversation lasted for the duration of the trip, and it was just plain sad. 

 

Being a captive audience is never the way to start a treatment day, but it’s inescapable when your driver is fluent in English (a rarity for this car service), likes you, and thinks they have a sympathetic ear to whom they can vent about the grottier aspects of their ongoing horniness.