Spilled Bean

Myself and my awesome imaginary dream boyfriend, James, all traveled to London together for a play James had produced.

James and I were walking along the very famous London Bridge together. We have already been together for a while. It might have been about a year or so. I was 17, almost 18. He had just turned 21. He was the producer for a very popular and uprising play, which was the reason behind us traveling to London. I believe we lived in England but it was no where near London, which is why being there made everything seem so much more incredible.

As James and I walked hand-in-hand across the London Bridge, watching the sunset, we began to talk. It turned into a rather heated discussion. It got to the point where both of us were screaming at each other. All I remember is him yelling over and over again, "You were never good enough for me. You suffocated me. I cannot be with you anymore." Amazing thing to have screamed at you in front of many strangers that are driving, and even walking, across the bridge.

I kept trying to calm him down, to tell him everything was going to be okay. I remember turning down the volume of my voice to a calmer, more sincere tone, to talk to him. I had hoped that, instead of yelling, a sincere tone would go over well. He stood there, still yelling, pointing out all of my flaws, how I was bringing him, and his career, down. I was standing in his way of being something great, something unimaginably wonderful. I can still see his face, the distraught, unhappy look that he wore while he yelled.

I tried to touch his arm, his shoulder, his hand, anything to calm him down. It was not working. I was failing him, once again, as his girlfriend. The next thing I knew, he jumped off the bridge. He had killed himself because he couldn't tolerate me anymore. Paramedics were called immediately, and they arrived almost instantaneously. They had pulled James out of the water. He was dead.

The paramedics rushed him to the hospital. They said he had the slightest chance of surviving. They could tell that the jump was not what killed him. Instead, it only stunned him. However, the cause of death, if he died, would be drowning. Sometimes, with some great miracle, doctors can save patients that have drowned. That gave me the smallest hint of hope and comfort.

The doctors worked on him for hours it seemed. All I could keep repeating to myself was, "You killed him. You killed the man that you love the most. You didn't make him happy, you never did. This is why he's dead. Look at what a terrible girlfriend you are. You never deserved such a great man like him." Finally, the doctors came out. They delivered the news: James had died. He drowned just moments before the paramedics got there. The short period of time from the bridge to the hospital was too much to save him. He never had a chance.

Horrified, I woke up around five in the morning, with the thought of "Oh my God, I killed a man by dating him" stuck in my head.

*** All names have been changed in the dream to protect the identity of those I think would jump off a bridge. Or I just changed the names so the people in my dream don't know I'm dreaming about them. :) It's a win-win situation.

I have had the sudden urge to proceed with a writing project that has been boiling in the back of my mind for ages. This is only the beginning to, hopefully, an amazing writing project. Here's a glimpse:

               It was a warm summer’s day when it first happened. I remember it as if it were yesterday. After all, that’s what keeps me sane these days. Just look where I wound up. Who wouldn’t lose their mind in this place?

     I loved him with every fiber of my being. I still do, of course. None of this was his fault. He can’t help that he’s lovable, right? Good guy, fun personality, nice house, reasonable income, and attractive. What trait does he lack? None. He’s perfect. Well, almost perfect. Besides his horrific flaws, such as his drinking problem, constant abandonment habits, and smoking, he’s perfect; he is what every girl looks for in their knight in shining armor.

     So, why is it that he’s so desirable when he has such horrendous flaws? How can he win over so many people? And why can’t he stop searching for love when he has already found an amazing girl that loves him for who he is, including his imperfections?

     Those are the questions that drove me crazy. Those are the questions that put me in here. Those questions have been eating away at my conscience for the past two years.

And this is why sometimes, I really hate sleeping:

I was a medical student at some dark, ominous school. The place where the cadavers are prepared was in the basement, along with the actual class that handles them. (And by class, I mean the dissection. There ARE other uses for cadavers; weird experiments for body transplants, crash dummies, etc.)

I was downstairs with the teacher / doctor. There was a cadaver with a beating heart lying on the table. (Yes, they DO exist). It was male, white, dark hair, scruffy face, and chest hair. A white sheet covered his manly bits, since they were unnecessary for this lesson. I was the only one downstairs with the doctor. We were in a secluded room, branched off from the actual "classroom". I had to stick a giant needle in him to stop his heart, without causing him to bleed to death or harm any of his main arteries. I remember the teacher saying that it had to be in his neck, but I did not listen. I tried stabbing it in his heart. I figured "Well, if it's closer to the destination, it'll move the process along a lot faster." Unfortunately, me being the giant klutz that I am, stabbed it in the wrong spot (mind you, the needle was also a foot long) and caused this poor cadaver to start bleeding to death.

At this point, the dream starts to become a bit hazy; I don't quite remember the transformation between the "classroom" and my house.

I walked into my house and yelled, "My GOD work was exhausting today. I killed a man." Nothing to be proud of, but I was. I walked down the hallway and into my bedroom to get changed. The time was very late but the sun was still shining. I slipped underneath my pink and green plaid comforter and started thinking about the day. All of a sudden, I hear my voice talking to me, but it wasn't in my head, or so I thought it wasn't. I looked over in my mirror and I saw myself standing in it, talking to me. I was saying how I was going to die because of all the horrible things I have done and so on. Me, thinking I'm just hallucinating from lack of sleep and working really hard, starts arguing with my mirror self. To prove a point, my mirror self killed my human self. But then my dream "rewound" itself. (It was really just my mirror self giving my human self another chance to put up a fight before I die.)

The mirror self was taunting my human self, saying how I meant nothing and that I (my mirror self) will be doing all mankind a favor by erasing me from the planet so I (human self) couldn't become a doctor. So, once again, I'm baffled and in shock, still denying the fact that this mirror self me is killing my human self me, without even being in the room. (It was kind of like that movie "Mirrors" except... better.) Well, history repeats itself, right? So did this, except this time, my mirror self broke the mirror. It wasn't like my mirror self broke it from inside of the mirror, though. It was as if I broke it, but I didn't, or so my human self thought. (I honestly have no idea whether or not I was a crazy person and just imagined that my mirror self broke the mirror while it was really me, or if there really were two of me. At this point, I would assume crazy person.) 
 
Once again, my dream "rewound" itself. I was alive, once again, in bed, looking at my mirror. Only this time was slightly different. I did not have a mirror. Instead, there was cardboard in the same shape as my mirror was. Mirror pieces were everywhere on my dresser and floor. Obviously these occurrences continued from where they left off, except I had my life. I decided this time I was going to stand up and brave it out. It seems as if my mirror self was gone, considering I had no mirror. Unfortunately, I was proven wrong in a matter of seconds. I felt a sharp piece of glass cut through my elbow joint. It was in one side, and out the other. Painful, obviously. I was a screaming mess while curled up in a ball on the floor. This time, I noticed that I could see my mirror self's reflection anywhere that, well, showed a reflection.  Shortly after I figured this out, I was dead... again.

My life was restored. I immediately jumped out of bed, knowing that something was going to happen, and grabbed the stake on the bottom of my umbrella. As I went to sit back in my bed, I kept my eyes on my TV, window, and alarm clock face. With my umbrella stake in hand and the help of the reflections, I was sure that things were going to be okay. I was wrong. I fought, and fought hard. I injured whatever this thing was, but it was also strange to be stabbing and swinging at air. At times, I would almost talk myself into the entire thing being fake, until I saw a reflection of this thing attacking me. I was killed, again, and for the last time. However, I wasn't dead. At least I didn't think I was dead. I was in the "locked-in state" (See "Locked-In State"). I was yelling and screaming for someone to help me, that this thing was going to do more damage to me. This thing carried me to my bed, and set me down gently. Remember the mirror pieces everywhere? Obviously they show reflection. Before this thing left, I noticed that I was not fighting myself anymore. Instead, it was a little boy. He seemed so familiar but I could not place where I knew him from. I still cannot.

Self conflict?

From my last post, it is clear that I started reading the Satanic Bible not only out of curiosity but to also start the search of finding out what I am. And for that reason, I can say fully that I am NOT a Satanist. I read 77 pages, out of 272, before I started disagreeing with what they believed.

First of all, I do agree that you should see yourself as a great human, as something wonderful... something divine within you. You are your own "God". I also agree with their idea on love and hate. If someone is rude to you, you return the rudeness. If someone is kind and loving, you return that. I also agree that you should not do things to intentionally hurt, or harm, other people.

However, when it got to the part about the difference between the "weak" and "powerful", I started to disagree. I am not one to be repulsed by someone that is "weak". I do not believe that all of the money and wealth should go to the "powerful". From my interpretation of the Satanic Bible, it reads to me as if you are criticizing people that are not like you, that do not have as much talent as you, that aren't as wealthy as you. People face different challenges and I think "weak" and "powerful" can only be determined on what they have been through, how they have dealt with it, and their reactions to those situations.

I do not fully disagree with their views on sex, but they do not suit me well. They are about free love. They think if you want sex, you go get it. You do what pleases yourself, as long as it doesn't hurt anyone around you. I do believe that people should have a choice but I don't think that if you have the urge to have sex with someone, you should act upon it. There should be a stable building block between the two people, first. Then, by all means, have a blast. As long as no one gets hurt.

Since I no longer need to finish the Satanic Bible, since I know that I am not a Satanist, I will be moving along to A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle.

A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose

Eckhart Tolle

New reading material:

The Satanic Bible

Anton Szandor Lavey

What is your most unusual nighttime ritual?

I've been afraid of the dark since I was a little girl. I still am afraid of the dark. If I decide that I'm going to sleep in the dark that night, I have to make sure that I have the ability to get to my bed without walking throughout my room in complete darkness. I've been doing this weird ritual for as long as I can remember. The ritual goes as follows:

I must have my TV and my lamp turned on. If one is on and the other is not, then I will remedy that situation and turn the other on. First, I will turn off my lamp, leaving the TV on. The TV channel will be set to a preferable channel, such as Nickelodeon or something like that because there are hardly ever any dark commercials. That channel is always fairly lit. Next, I will crawl into my bed, with the TV remote. Reason for this is I have a strange fear that while I'm standing in front of my bed in the dark, I feel as if something (that I know logically isn't there) will reach its hand out from under the bed and grab my ankles. Crazy, I know. Thirdly, I will turn off the TV. Now, I am in complete darkness. Even then I am a little freaked out. So, finally, I throw the blanket up above my head for a decent amount of time in order for my eyes to get used to a darker place. Under my blanket darkness does not freak me out only because I know that there is nothing else under there with me. If there was, the blanket would be lifted in all sorts of strange ways.

Once that ritual is done, I will either remove the blanket, for now I can make out objects in my room better. (I tend not to look around too much if I do choose to do this option. Even though I can now see better, it's still the dark. Who knows what might pop out at you?) Sometimes, I fall asleep with the blanket over my head, so seeing in the dark is not an issue.

This is one of my favorite sections of Napalm & Silly Putty by George Carlin. It has to do with, well, death.

"Dying to Stay Alive
You're all going to die. I hate to remind you, but it is on your schedule. It probably won't happen when you'd like; generally, it's an inconvenience. For instance, you might have your stamp collection spread out on the dining room table.
     [Ominous music]
     "Now?"
     "Now."
     "May I at least put away my commemoratives?"
     "No."
     Inconvenient.
     Nobody wants to die. Nobody. Well, maybe Evel Knievel, but most other people don't like the idea. It doesn't seem like an enjoyable thing. People figure if being sick is no fun, dying must really be a bother. After all, part of the pleasure of being alive is the knowledge that you're not dead yet.
     And when you get right down to it, people don't mind being dead, it's getting dead that bothers them. No one wants to get dead. But we're all gonna do it. Death is one of the few things that are truly democratic-- everybody gets it once. But only once. That's what makes us nervous. No rehearsals.

Ticket to Nowhere
And actually, I think people should look forward to death. After all, it's our next big adventure. At last we're going to find out where we go. Isn't that what we've all been wondering? Where we go?
     "Where do we go?"
     "I don't know."
     "We must go somewhere."
     "True."
     "Phil says he knows."
     "I know he does. But take my word, Phil doesn't know."
     Where do we go? Maybe it's nowhere; that would be interesting. On the one hand, you'd be nowhere, but on the other hand, you wouldn't know it. So at least you'd have something to think about. Or not.
     Personally, I think we go wherever we think we're going to go. What you think is what you get. Have you ever heard one of those guys who says, "Don't even bother prayin' for me, I'm goin' straight to hell; I'm goin' to hell to be with all my friends"? Well, he is. He's going to hell, and he'll be with all his friends. What you think is what you get. If you keep saying you're going to heaven, chances are you'll get there. But don't look for any of your friends.
     In my own case, I expect I'll be going to a public toilet in Honduras. And by the way, should you be interested, I can tell you on good authority that when Monty Hall dies he will be spending a lot of time behind door number three.

Death: The Show

Die Big

     My feeling is that as long as you're going to die, you should go out with a bang. Make a statement. Don't just "pass away." Die!
     "Arnie passed away."
     "He did?"
     "Yes. Quietly, in a chair."
     "I didn't know."
     "Well, that's the idea; no one knows."
     "True. On the other hand, they say Jim died."
     "Oh, yes, Jim died! He died, and now he's dead! He had a thirty-minute seizure in a hotel, danced across the lobby, and wound up in a fountain, twitching uncontrollably. Bell hops were actually applauding."
     "God bless him, he went out big."
     I say go out big, folks; it's your last chance to make a statement. Before you go, give 'em a show; entertain those you leave behind.

Two-Minute Warning

     Now, you might be wondering why I would even suggest that someone can affect the manner and style of his death. Well, it's because of a mysterious and little-known stage of dying, the two-minute warning. Most people are not aware of it, but it does exist. Just as in football, two minutes before you die you receive an audible warning: "Two minutes! Get your shit together!" And the reason most people don't know about it is because the only ones who hear it are dead two minutes later. They never get a chance to tell us.
     But such a warning does exist, and I suggest when it comes, you use your two minutes to entertain and go out big. If nothing else, deliver a two-minute speech. Pick a subject you feel passionate about, and just start talking. Begin low-key, but, with mounting passion, build to a rousing climax. Finally, in the last few seconds, scream at those around you, "If these words are not the truth, may God strike me dead!" He will. Then simply slump forward and fall to the floor. Believe me, from that moment on, people will pay more attention to you.
     Of course, such a speech is not your only option; circumstances may permit a more spectacular exit. Perhaps you'll get your two-minute warning during an aerobics class. If so, volunteer for something strenuous. Grab three sets of dumbells, strap on a lot of leg weights, and start running on the treadmill at a really steep grade. When they tell you to stop, turn the treadmill up to 20 miles an hour and start leaping in the air. Tell them it's a new exercise called the Hindu Death Leap. Then collapse on the treadmill, allowing it to fling you backward into the mirrored wall, breaking the mirror and showering everyone with small pieces of glass. I guarantee the police will search your locker carefully.

"Heal This!"

     Or maybe you'll be lucky enough to receive your two-minute warning while attending Christian faith-healing services. This is a wonderful opportunity to give religion a bad name. After the sermon, when they ask for those to come forward who "need a miracle", stand up and get in line with the cripples. Try to time things just right. Cut into line if you have to. Then, with barely ten seconds left, kneel in front of the preacher. He will place his hands on you, shout, "Heal!" and you will croak at his feet. Not quite a miracle, but certainly an attention-getter. And the nice thing is they'll blame it on the preacher:

THOUSANDS LOOK ON AS
EVANGELIST SLAYS WORSHIPER.
POLICE STUDY VIDEOTAPE.

Posthumous Fun

     But you needn't be satisfied with merely an impressive death scene. You can actually take it a bit further, past the moment of death, by preprogramming some posthumous reflexes into your brain. Remember, the central nervous system runs on electricity, and dying takes place in stages. So, not all of your electrical energy is fully discharged at the time you are pronounced dead; some of it remains stored. Morgue and funeral workers report that corpses often spasm and twitch as much as two days after death.
     So I say, as long as you have that potential, be creative. Before you die, try using autosuggestion and visual imaging to preprogram into your brain a few posthumous reflexes. Things that will entertain the folks you leave behind and capture their imaginations. You might want to consider humming during your autopsy, or snapping your fingers during the embalming, or -- always a big winner at a wake -- bolting upright in your coffin and screaming, "I'm not really dead!" That one is especially fun if someone has brought along impressionable children.
     But perhaps you're of a more conservative stripe. If so, at your wake, something as simple as squeezing off several dozen loud but artistically redeeming farts that might bring a smile to the faces of those who knew you best: "Isn't that just like Uncle Bob," they'll chuckle, as they rush to open a window.
     So, folks, I think my message is clear; even in death, obligations to your loved ones do not end. You still have the responsibility to entertain and ease their grief. And should you persist, and be truly creative with these postdeath efforts, you may accomplish the rare feat of leaving behind a group of incensed relatives who beat you with heavy clubs until they are satisfied that you're fully and completely dead."

Napalm & Silly Putty

George Carlin

Don't you just absolutely ADORE him? He's wonderful.

     

I walked out into the kitchen not too long ago and saw a box of Rice Krispies sitting on the counter. My brain, since it has it memorized from front to back (page numbers included), immediately went to the section about Rice Krispies in Napalm & Silly Putty by George Carlin. Here's the section:

"I had an interesting morning; I got into an argument with my Rice Krispies. I distinctly heard, "Snap, crackle, fuck you!" I'm not sure which one of them said it; I was reaching for the artificial sweetener at the time and not looking directly into the bowl. But I heard it and I said, "Well, you can all just sit right there in the milk as far as I'm concerned until I find out which one of you said it." Mass punishment. The idea is to turn them against one another.
     Silly me. Big punishment! That's what Rice Krispies do. Sit in the milk. That's their job. You've seen them. Delicate, beige blisters of air, floating proudly in the milk. And you can't sink them. They refuse to sink. The navy ought to use Rice Krispies in life preservers. That's where they're really needed.
     And do you know how Rice Krispies manage to float for such a long time? By clinging to one another; they buddy up. They gather in little groups of eight, ten, or sometimes twelve, but if you've noticed it's always an even number. That's because the electromagnetic polarity of the Krispies attracts them to one another. It binds them into pairs, like subatomic particles. They form little colonies, and you can't sink them, not even with a spoon. They just come bobbing up over the sides of the spoon, laughing at you and reveling in their buoyancy. Hard to sink.
     That's what the fruit is for. Not for added taste; not for nutrition; it's for sinking the Rice Krispies. Believe me, a good-sized peach, hurled at the bowl full force from a stepladder, can take down eighty or ninety of the little buggers in one glorious splash.
     And I have absolutely no mercy. If I'm really pissed, I'll climb up to the upstairs balcony and drop a watermelon on them. That'll teach them to sass me at breakfast."

Napalm & Silly Putty

George Carlin

Do you remember your dreams?

Yes, I do remember my dreams. Sometimes all too clearly. Other times, it's just a vague concept of what the dream was about. However, I usually only remember the bad dreams. Why? I have no idea. I would prefer to remember the happy ones. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don't.

Tom Felton, also known as Draco Malfoy, is not only a brilliant actor. He is also an amazing artist. I just bought his album "In Good Hands" from ITunes. It was possibly the most well spent six dollars of my life. One song that has been stuck in my head for the short time I've had this album would be "When Angels Come". Amazing lyrics.

Felton