Whitewater, what the fuck is wrong with your women? It seems none of them are 100% legit. Case in point, I'm at this bar checking out my friends' band and the place is packed. The place is packed with a medley of misfit toys.
None of these chicks were built right. Either everything on top was groovy and the bottom half was all wrong, or the top half was terrible, and the bottom half was groovy. These women are the poster mavens of what happens when you stop exercising and live off an exclusively high calorie diet.
I remember jive walking over to a table full of ladies. I was looking to get my mojo flowing, and most of them had pretty cute faces so I was like "let's throw down".
Sadly when they stood up to dance with me I noticed something the table had hidden from me: bedonkadonks. Gigantic asses and thighs. I'm not black, nor am I a chubby chaser so I told them flat out, "you gotta be kidding me. Jazzercise, then get back to me".
Listen, Whitewater girls, you don't have much to offer. You're not that interesting, you're not that smart. The least you can do is make an attempt at fixing the only thing you have control over. God knows what a little cardio and not eating the whole fucking bag of Doritos will do for you.
With love,
Dan.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
My Journey to Write the Great American Novel
The other night I was in a haze of melancholy, and gastrointestinal fumes that can only be created by the combination of Thai and Mexican food on an empty stomach. As I sat on my couch, frantically gasping for breath, I realized that my melancholy could be used as a tool. You see what did the late 19th and early 20th century authors have in common? Melancholy and an addiction to either absinthe, blow, heroin or young boys.
Immediately I sprang to life as fast as a man with a stomach full of brewing toxins can. I determined that trying blow and heroin were way too "fucking real" for me to try, and that boning little boys was way beyond anything I ever want to think about. So that just left me with absinthe, which was a bummer because it was too late to buy any.
I decided to improvise on the cheap. Instead of using any of my wine, or other liquors I decided to bust open this old looking bottle of tequila. I figured that "vintage shit [had] to be vintage shit, dude". I took a few good swigs of the stuff and began to write an epic novel.
Somewhere around the first sentence of the epic novel I started to get a little side-tracked. I started stumbling around the Internet for a while looking for something to do. As all my pointless searches on the Internet go I ended up on Facebook. It's now that I realize what a blessing it is that our great writers of years gone by never had the Internet to contend with, or else I fear some of the greatest works that I've never read would never have been written.
Anyhow I was perusing various people's profiles, making fun of their pictures, hobbies and boyfriends when I realized I could harass these people on a more personal level. I took a few more swigs of tequila until I had the sufficient level of cajones to start calling people at 3 AM.
A lot of people didn't answer, but a few did. Here's a sampling of a few of the few conversations:
Some Girl: [Very sleepy] H-hello?
Me: Hey p-pretty lady? You got your vitamin Dan this morning?
SG: What? Who is this?
Me: Baby, the 90's called they wanna introduce you to caller ID.
SG: I don't have your number. This is really creepy.
Me: I just told you my name. My name is... my name is Dan and you got a pretty face...
SG: I'm hanging up.
Me: Your face is on fire. [she hangs up] Whore.
Convo 2
Another Girl: What Dan?
Me: Hey my white sexual chocolate, what say you and me rent a gondola and tour the world together, together.
AG: It's a weeknight why are you drunk?
Me: I'm writing the great American novel, bitch. What are you doing up, li'l miss judgementally challenged?
AG: I'm at work, you asshole. I can't talk...
Me: You work at fuckin' this late? Don't pick up the phone if you can't talk.
AG: Kay bye
Me: You didn't answer my question...
Convo 3
A Dude: Sup bro?
Me: Not much, dude. Kinda bummed 'cuz all these skanks, yo.
AD: Wanna come over and drink some beer?
Me: Yeah, I definitely need something to get the taste of tequila out of my mouth...
Well the next morning I wake up in this bright white room. I figured I died and went to heaven so I just nestled my head deeper into a soft white mound and waited for Jesus to come around and give me a tour of the joint.
That's when I realized I had a pounding headache and my nose was filled like I had been puking a few hours before. At that point I decided to say "fuck it" to the rest of the day, and finding out where the hell I was, and save all that shit for whenever the hell I woke up again.
I vaguely recall people coming in and out of the room, each of whom I somehow made eye contact with. Some were talkative, some not.
It must have been several hours later when I realized how out of place I really was. I decided to get up and noticed I had nestled myself in someone's laundry. I was in a laundry room in a building that did not look familiar.
"Hey dude, can you call me? I don't know where I am" was my frantic mass text I sent to nearly everyone in my phone book. Shame started to make sense to me and I became too afraid to stay in the laundry room, and far too afraid to ask any of the tenants where I was.
I was a mess, a disorientated mess stumbling down vacant, dimly light hallways frantically searching for the exit. I looked at my phone, and noticed all I could see was a blurry mess.
Somehow getting up from my laundry pile had discombobulated my eyeballs. Eventually I found my way outside, and it was dark, and it was not Madison... it was Middleton, the place God sends Whitewater business school graduates.
I vowed from that day forward to stay as far away from novels as possible.
Immediately I sprang to life as fast as a man with a stomach full of brewing toxins can. I determined that trying blow and heroin were way too "fucking real" for me to try, and that boning little boys was way beyond anything I ever want to think about. So that just left me with absinthe, which was a bummer because it was too late to buy any.
I decided to improvise on the cheap. Instead of using any of my wine, or other liquors I decided to bust open this old looking bottle of tequila. I figured that "vintage shit [had] to be vintage shit, dude". I took a few good swigs of the stuff and began to write an epic novel.
Somewhere around the first sentence of the epic novel I started to get a little side-tracked. I started stumbling around the Internet for a while looking for something to do. As all my pointless searches on the Internet go I ended up on Facebook. It's now that I realize what a blessing it is that our great writers of years gone by never had the Internet to contend with, or else I fear some of the greatest works that I've never read would never have been written.
Anyhow I was perusing various people's profiles, making fun of their pictures, hobbies and boyfriends when I realized I could harass these people on a more personal level. I took a few more swigs of tequila until I had the sufficient level of cajones to start calling people at 3 AM.
A lot of people didn't answer, but a few did. Here's a sampling of a few of the few conversations:
Some Girl: [Very sleepy] H-hello?
Me: Hey p-pretty lady? You got your vitamin Dan this morning?
SG: What? Who is this?
Me: Baby, the 90's called they wanna introduce you to caller ID.
SG: I don't have your number. This is really creepy.
Me: I just told you my name. My name is... my name is Dan and you got a pretty face...
SG: I'm hanging up.
Me: Your face is on fire. [she hangs up] Whore.
Convo 2
Another Girl: What Dan?
Me: Hey my white sexual chocolate, what say you and me rent a gondola and tour the world together, together.
AG: It's a weeknight why are you drunk?
Me: I'm writing the great American novel, bitch. What are you doing up, li'l miss judgementally challenged?
AG: I'm at work, you asshole. I can't talk...
Me: You work at fuckin' this late? Don't pick up the phone if you can't talk.
AG: Kay bye
Me: You didn't answer my question...
Convo 3
A Dude: Sup bro?
Me: Not much, dude. Kinda bummed 'cuz all these skanks, yo.
AD: Wanna come over and drink some beer?
Me: Yeah, I definitely need something to get the taste of tequila out of my mouth...
Well the next morning I wake up in this bright white room. I figured I died and went to heaven so I just nestled my head deeper into a soft white mound and waited for Jesus to come around and give me a tour of the joint.
That's when I realized I had a pounding headache and my nose was filled like I had been puking a few hours before. At that point I decided to say "fuck it" to the rest of the day, and finding out where the hell I was, and save all that shit for whenever the hell I woke up again.
I vaguely recall people coming in and out of the room, each of whom I somehow made eye contact with. Some were talkative, some not.
It must have been several hours later when I realized how out of place I really was. I decided to get up and noticed I had nestled myself in someone's laundry. I was in a laundry room in a building that did not look familiar.
"Hey dude, can you call me? I don't know where I am" was my frantic mass text I sent to nearly everyone in my phone book. Shame started to make sense to me and I became too afraid to stay in the laundry room, and far too afraid to ask any of the tenants where I was.
I was a mess, a disorientated mess stumbling down vacant, dimly light hallways frantically searching for the exit. I looked at my phone, and noticed all I could see was a blurry mess.
Somehow getting up from my laundry pile had discombobulated my eyeballs. Eventually I found my way outside, and it was dark, and it was not Madison... it was Middleton, the place God sends Whitewater business school graduates.
I vowed from that day forward to stay as far away from novels as possible.
My Advice to Today's Youth
Somehow I've gained a following of impressionable youths. I've noticed that most of the time I'm with them I'm too drunk to impart upon them my natural wisdom. That is why I'm going to make a list of musings that will hopefully help these youth find their way in the world.
1. Never be friends with a girl. The relationships between men and women should be antagonistic, or full on humping. Don't go shopping with her, don't take her to the airport, and don't take her to your room and not make out with her. The friend zone is a major cock block.
2. If you go to a raging kegger, don't bitch about the beer being served. Beer at those types of parties are merely there to get you from being sober to shitfaced. Also, never ask for wine at a kegger.
3. If a muscular black man is leading you to a secluded area at a bar on your birthday I suggest you run. His intentions are not pure.
4. If you're at a party and you run into a bunch of transients with dreadlocks playing homemade instruments go ahead and talk to them. They have a lot more to offer than the other drunk sluts at the party.
5. Rap is not music. It's black people's way of punishing us for slavery.
6. Never hook up at a party. It's not classy. Go home and do your dirty sinful business. No one wants to walk in on you tonguing, sucking or fucking.
7. Cynicism is a terrible trait to have.
8. You know you've hit rock bottom when, of the two New Year's parties you went to, the one with a bunch of dudes making out was the better of the two.
9. Calling a bartender ugly to her face is not a good way to start an evening. However, if her service was up to that point terrible, I will allow it. Also, it's okay, and even encouraged, to puke all over her bar at the end of the night.
10. You can do anything you want with the right blend of charm and charisma.
11. Using logic to win an argument is silly. The goal of all arguments isn't to prove your case. You're right, and they need to get over that. The real goal is to get the other person to cry.
12. Always fight dirty.
13. Telling a girl about your masturbation habits are definitely not encouraged. Unless you like masturbating more than you like girls.
14. If you go to a wedding and the bride is wearing a strapless dress, and has awful tan lines it's your job to call her out. Listen, it's her special day, even she shouldn't be allowed to fuck it up with terrible tan lines.
15. The world is full of douche bags. They can be identified by the following tattoos: Chinese calligraphy, tribal arm bands, dragons.
1. Never be friends with a girl. The relationships between men and women should be antagonistic, or full on humping. Don't go shopping with her, don't take her to the airport, and don't take her to your room and not make out with her. The friend zone is a major cock block.
2. If you go to a raging kegger, don't bitch about the beer being served. Beer at those types of parties are merely there to get you from being sober to shitfaced. Also, never ask for wine at a kegger.
3. If a muscular black man is leading you to a secluded area at a bar on your birthday I suggest you run. His intentions are not pure.
4. If you're at a party and you run into a bunch of transients with dreadlocks playing homemade instruments go ahead and talk to them. They have a lot more to offer than the other drunk sluts at the party.
5. Rap is not music. It's black people's way of punishing us for slavery.
6. Never hook up at a party. It's not classy. Go home and do your dirty sinful business. No one wants to walk in on you tonguing, sucking or fucking.
7. Cynicism is a terrible trait to have.
8. You know you've hit rock bottom when, of the two New Year's parties you went to, the one with a bunch of dudes making out was the better of the two.
9. Calling a bartender ugly to her face is not a good way to start an evening. However, if her service was up to that point terrible, I will allow it. Also, it's okay, and even encouraged, to puke all over her bar at the end of the night.
10. You can do anything you want with the right blend of charm and charisma.
11. Using logic to win an argument is silly. The goal of all arguments isn't to prove your case. You're right, and they need to get over that. The real goal is to get the other person to cry.
12. Always fight dirty.
13. Telling a girl about your masturbation habits are definitely not encouraged. Unless you like masturbating more than you like girls.
14. If you go to a wedding and the bride is wearing a strapless dress, and has awful tan lines it's your job to call her out. Listen, it's her special day, even she shouldn't be allowed to fuck it up with terrible tan lines.
15. The world is full of douche bags. They can be identified by the following tattoos: Chinese calligraphy, tribal arm bands, dragons.
My Bath Time
So the other night I was sitting at my desk surveying my wondrous reflection. I was amazed at how it seems I haven't aged a day, when it seems my peers are getting older, fatter and much, much uglier. As I mulled this point I styled my beautiful, lush hair into wondrous shapes and effigies. Something, I dare say, no one on this planet is able to do with such efficiency and grace as myself.
After preening my hair I realized that I had forgotten to go into work that day. "No bother" I said to myself, "my body is already taxed from a fruitful day of lusting after my own visage". With that I decided to relax with a scented bath, burned incense and some gold infused myrrh I purchased on a recent trip to the Holy Land.
As I lay nude in the tub, surrounded by bubbles and play tug boats, I began to reflect upon the goings on of the day, and realized that I deserved this. Lounging is hard work, especially in this heat and humidity. I began to sip elegantly upon the chilled champagne and sunk deeper and deeper into oblivion.
As my mind was on the cusp of revealing life's mysteries when I began to gag on the warm, myrrh-flavored water. I decided to exit the tub, and survey my wonder on my deck. I didn't need a towel.
My family did not appreciate my nudity as I walked around the home, clutching a champagne glass. Their shrill calls to put some clothes on was quickly cut off when the realized I was trying to make my way to the deck outside. My mother tackled me with a blanket and my sister sprayed me with a fire extinguisher. They sicken me.
After preening my hair I realized that I had forgotten to go into work that day. "No bother" I said to myself, "my body is already taxed from a fruitful day of lusting after my own visage". With that I decided to relax with a scented bath, burned incense and some gold infused myrrh I purchased on a recent trip to the Holy Land.
As I lay nude in the tub, surrounded by bubbles and play tug boats, I began to reflect upon the goings on of the day, and realized that I deserved this. Lounging is hard work, especially in this heat and humidity. I began to sip elegantly upon the chilled champagne and sunk deeper and deeper into oblivion.
As my mind was on the cusp of revealing life's mysteries when I began to gag on the warm, myrrh-flavored water. I decided to exit the tub, and survey my wonder on my deck. I didn't need a towel.
My family did not appreciate my nudity as I walked around the home, clutching a champagne glass. Their shrill calls to put some clothes on was quickly cut off when the realized I was trying to make my way to the deck outside. My mother tackled me with a blanket and my sister sprayed me with a fire extinguisher. They sicken me.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Writers Block
I’m sitting here banging away on my laptop, praying to God that I can write something legible, humorous and with at least an ounce of literary merit. The problem is I’m in a funk, and although I can think of topics to write about I either can’t express these ideas clearly and humorously, or I just can’t finish what I started. This lack of production has really gotten me down and I’m desperate to turn things around. That being said, I think I have an idea on how to regain my confidence and sharpen my edge. I’m going to do what all the great writers before me have done. Writers like Thompson, Camus, Burroughs, Poe and Wilde. That’s right… I’m going to take lots and lots of opiates.
I know what some of you are thinking, “Dan, you sexual idol, you can’t take drugs. You can’t. You just can’t! Think of the children! Think of your mother!” I’m sorry ladies (I’ve long since determined guys don’t read my ramblings) I’ve made up my mind. I’m a perfectionist, and I’m determined to give you a product worth your valuable time. I’ve weighed all the options, and this is by far the best way for me to give you what you deserve.
Let’s face facts as well; this is going to be the most fun way to solve my writer’s block. Of course let’s hope I don’t over dose, have a heart attack or have some jackass drug dealer swap my mushrooms with marshmallows dipped in LSD. I think if everyone holds up their end of the deal (I take the drugs. My dealer gives me good drugs. My friends make sure I don’t choke on my own vomit) we’ll get out of this whole experiment with some really awesome essays, some great stories and no lasting addictions.
I don’t want to sugar coat this, things could get ugly. Like Thompson and Burroughs I might begin to develop a fascination with military grade weaponry. I may also decide to travel with a Samoan attorney, I’m not sure. These are things that the drugs will decide. All we can do is speculate and come up with contingency plans.
Let’s set up some ground rules. If I start to develop eccentricities, such as referring to myself as the Emperor of Wisconsin and Protector of Mexico, let it slide until I start printing my own currency. Everything I write while on the drugs needs to be saved. To you it may seem like crazy babble, but to existentialists and aged, drug ravaged hippies it maybe a new religion (cults are big money). Keep Yoko Ono the fuck away from me. If I say I’m going to cut you, I’m going to cut you. And finally if I begin to find myself in homosexual orgies, please get me into rehab right away (especially if it looks like I might be a bottom).
All right, let the adventure begin!
I know what some of you are thinking, “Dan, you sexual idol, you can’t take drugs. You can’t. You just can’t! Think of the children! Think of your mother!” I’m sorry ladies (I’ve long since determined guys don’t read my ramblings) I’ve made up my mind. I’m a perfectionist, and I’m determined to give you a product worth your valuable time. I’ve weighed all the options, and this is by far the best way for me to give you what you deserve.
Let’s face facts as well; this is going to be the most fun way to solve my writer’s block. Of course let’s hope I don’t over dose, have a heart attack or have some jackass drug dealer swap my mushrooms with marshmallows dipped in LSD. I think if everyone holds up their end of the deal (I take the drugs. My dealer gives me good drugs. My friends make sure I don’t choke on my own vomit) we’ll get out of this whole experiment with some really awesome essays, some great stories and no lasting addictions.
I don’t want to sugar coat this, things could get ugly. Like Thompson and Burroughs I might begin to develop a fascination with military grade weaponry. I may also decide to travel with a Samoan attorney, I’m not sure. These are things that the drugs will decide. All we can do is speculate and come up with contingency plans.
Let’s set up some ground rules. If I start to develop eccentricities, such as referring to myself as the Emperor of Wisconsin and Protector of Mexico, let it slide until I start printing my own currency. Everything I write while on the drugs needs to be saved. To you it may seem like crazy babble, but to existentialists and aged, drug ravaged hippies it maybe a new religion (cults are big money). Keep Yoko Ono the fuck away from me. If I say I’m going to cut you, I’m going to cut you. And finally if I begin to find myself in homosexual orgies, please get me into rehab right away (especially if it looks like I might be a bottom).
All right, let the adventure begin!
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Network Chaos
So our computer network is down, which means the only thing I can do on my computer is make rambling Word documents and baffling spreadsheets. None of this would be so bad if it wasn’t for my desire to avoid actual work and cruise the Internet until someone of authority noticed. Looks like for the time being I’m stuck shuffling papers around on my desk while crunching mercilessly on a stale bag of BBQ flavored trail mix.
It’s times like these when I wonder what our pre-Internet age counterparts did in the olden days of 1964. I bet they just puffed on smooth cigarettes and told misogynistic jokes to each other. Surely productivity was an invention of the Internet.
So here I sit, pecking away at a $700 typewriter debating if I should dust my desk with the Chlorox wipes or the Windex. A few of my co-workers have chosen instead to binge eat on whatever morsels are lying about the department. I sense this is how crack addicts cope when they’re unable to achieve a fix. Little does anyone know that I have a closet full of candy. If this outage persists I may be able to exploit this advantage and become their god.
I’ve begun to sculpt plastic figurines depicting my godly heritage to quell any heretics. Thankfully I’ve been able to mine the plastic from the laughably anatomically incorrect skeleton near my desk. Seeing as how only I have this valuable natural resource in abundance I am able to hold a monopoly on idol creation. Yes, yes, I and only I will tell them who to worship. I am the prophet god Dan!
Blasphemy aside I’m searching for meaningful things to do. I’ve taken to randomly texting my friends the details of my current situation. Sadly none of them are awake. I need to get new, not so sleepy friends.
I wonder what other people are doing to keep themselves occupied. They’re probably building fortifications. I should build a fort as well… and weapons. I must arm myself to defend against marauders who would love to do nothing else than steal from my candy closet. I could make a weapon out of my stapler, but I feel that’s what they’re expecting me to do. I wonder what sort of weapons I can create with what I have on hand: White-Out, canned air and butane lighter.
I’m beginning to flesh out the creation story for my new religion. I’m not sure what angle I want to go with. Is everyone the byproduct of my wrath and vengeance against a pantheon of gods, or is everyone a deliberate creation? I’m not down with the whole free will thing, though. That garbage is getting left by the wayside. I think for my flood story the protagonist’s name will be Alfonzo, and the flood won’t be caused by man’s wickedness, but because I forgot to turn off the water for some do it yourself plumbing. There’ll be a moral in that: Thou shalt always check to see if the water is turned off before removing a faucet. My new religion will be pretty practical. A few other commands will be: Always put the keys on the key rack turn off the lights when you leave the room, and always tip you waitress.
Oh, hey, the network is back up. Lata skaters.
It’s times like these when I wonder what our pre-Internet age counterparts did in the olden days of 1964. I bet they just puffed on smooth cigarettes and told misogynistic jokes to each other. Surely productivity was an invention of the Internet.
So here I sit, pecking away at a $700 typewriter debating if I should dust my desk with the Chlorox wipes or the Windex. A few of my co-workers have chosen instead to binge eat on whatever morsels are lying about the department. I sense this is how crack addicts cope when they’re unable to achieve a fix. Little does anyone know that I have a closet full of candy. If this outage persists I may be able to exploit this advantage and become their god.
I’ve begun to sculpt plastic figurines depicting my godly heritage to quell any heretics. Thankfully I’ve been able to mine the plastic from the laughably anatomically incorrect skeleton near my desk. Seeing as how only I have this valuable natural resource in abundance I am able to hold a monopoly on idol creation. Yes, yes, I and only I will tell them who to worship. I am the prophet god Dan!
Blasphemy aside I’m searching for meaningful things to do. I’ve taken to randomly texting my friends the details of my current situation. Sadly none of them are awake. I need to get new, not so sleepy friends.
I wonder what other people are doing to keep themselves occupied. They’re probably building fortifications. I should build a fort as well… and weapons. I must arm myself to defend against marauders who would love to do nothing else than steal from my candy closet. I could make a weapon out of my stapler, but I feel that’s what they’re expecting me to do. I wonder what sort of weapons I can create with what I have on hand: White-Out, canned air and butane lighter.
I’m beginning to flesh out the creation story for my new religion. I’m not sure what angle I want to go with. Is everyone the byproduct of my wrath and vengeance against a pantheon of gods, or is everyone a deliberate creation? I’m not down with the whole free will thing, though. That garbage is getting left by the wayside. I think for my flood story the protagonist’s name will be Alfonzo, and the flood won’t be caused by man’s wickedness, but because I forgot to turn off the water for some do it yourself plumbing. There’ll be a moral in that: Thou shalt always check to see if the water is turned off before removing a faucet. My new religion will be pretty practical. A few other commands will be: Always put the keys on the key rack turn off the lights when you leave the room, and always tip you waitress.
Oh, hey, the network is back up. Lata skaters.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Dream Malady
I have this dream where I throw this amazing party, and amidst a hushed ambiance I descend a staircase in a flowing formal gown. Serves me right for falling asleep during a "Pride and Prejudice" marathon.
I absolutely hate it when you have a very realistic dream in which you accomplish a lot of stuff. You dream you worked hard on a project or you flirted with this cute girl, and got the nuts to ask her out on a date, and had an amazing date which culminated on a bridge somewhere overlooking the sunrise. Immediately after the dream you want to test out and see if any of the crap that happened in the dream "took" in real life. Sadly you realize that all that work in the dream translates to jack in real life. Or maybe you decide to take some of the things that did happen in the dream and try to make them happen in real life. For instance let's say that in your dream you have this solution to a problem at work and your solution was greeted with enthusiasm and praise in the dream. But when it comes to real life your solution is met with baffled looks and your boss puts her head in her hands and mutters, "you fucking moron" under her breath.
I wish that life had a free dream pass. Like once a year you're allowed to document what you accomplished in your dream and are at least given partial credit. Like if you did have an amazing date with a girl you can tell her without her thinking you're a creep-o. Or you can tell your boss that you worked really hard on this looming project in your dream and that should definitely be considered in your next review.
It's about damn time that we get credit for the thought, since isn't it really the thought that counts? Everyone has these dreams, it's only fair we are allowed the chance not to feel so damn pathetic after having them.
I absolutely hate it when you have a very realistic dream in which you accomplish a lot of stuff. You dream you worked hard on a project or you flirted with this cute girl, and got the nuts to ask her out on a date, and had an amazing date which culminated on a bridge somewhere overlooking the sunrise. Immediately after the dream you want to test out and see if any of the crap that happened in the dream "took" in real life. Sadly you realize that all that work in the dream translates to jack in real life. Or maybe you decide to take some of the things that did happen in the dream and try to make them happen in real life. For instance let's say that in your dream you have this solution to a problem at work and your solution was greeted with enthusiasm and praise in the dream. But when it comes to real life your solution is met with baffled looks and your boss puts her head in her hands and mutters, "you fucking moron" under her breath.
I wish that life had a free dream pass. Like once a year you're allowed to document what you accomplished in your dream and are at least given partial credit. Like if you did have an amazing date with a girl you can tell her without her thinking you're a creep-o. Or you can tell your boss that you worked really hard on this looming project in your dream and that should definitely be considered in your next review.
It's about damn time that we get credit for the thought, since isn't it really the thought that counts? Everyone has these dreams, it's only fair we are allowed the chance not to feel so damn pathetic after having them.
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