I like to drink. I will drink just about anything you set in front of me, save a few exceptions. For instance, I hate black licorice so no thanks to the Jagermeister, and I have no desire to burn holes in my throat so you can keep your 150 proof liquor and Everclear… bleh! I like beer. I certainly wouldn't kick a bottle of Wild Turkey out of my liquor cabinet, and I'm madly in love with a seabearing fellow by the name of Morgan. I also like the cheapest wine you can find on the shelf–what Poppy Z. Brite once described as "wino wine" in her first novel. The purple, sugar-added, sticky-sweet stuff, with a screw cap, that begs to be enjoyed from a brown paper bag– like Wild Irish Rose.

On that note, I don't drink excessively. I may drink often, but not in excessive amounts, like the group I used to hang out with in my late teens through early twenties. We drank cases of cheap beer EVERY NIGHT at Dave's (God rest him). I can't even think of Red Dog now without wanting to gag. It was pretty damn nasty stuff.


Anyway, I have these semi-reoccuring post-apocolyptic dreams sometimes. I say "semi" because the dreams aren't always the same scenario, just the same theme. Usually, some national catastrophy has caused anarchy–a zombie outbreak or a war–and people are scrounging for a safe-haven. At some point we usually end up in some grand old church with stained glass and a dingy cellar. In the last one I had, it was zombies, and our group/camp/whatever was splitting apart due to some kind of disagreements and I had to chose whether or not to stay put in a place where I wasn't satisfied with the living arrangement or leaving with these shady looking misfits–one of which I was developing a crush on despite my best judgement… I don't remember the outcome, only that I packed my baby blanket and snuck out in the night with this group of guys.

The most recent one had us in a convoy of motorcycles in a desert. We stopped off in the old church to rest for the night. Everything was so barren and dusty. I rode behind a mysterious stranger with road grit in his outgrown dirty-blonde curls. He was dangerous looking and surprisingly kind to me. I was running out of fuel and the others complained that I would hold them up with my constantly wanting to stop to pee. Ha-ha! The dangerous-looking guy seemed patiently put-out by my crappy riding skills and micro-bladder.

It would seem that in most of my dreams I am either in my teens or just in my twenties. The dangerous-looking stranger seemed older/grittier/wiser–like Han Solo or Billy Jack.

I shall ponder these weird dreams over a bottle of wino wine and find a way to squeeze a story out of them.


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