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Wednesday, Apr. 03, 2002 - 6:25 a.m.
Hangers On

I had a dream this morning.

The first part is all jumbled up. I was in Ottawa. I was hanging around with dodgy people. In particular there were two guys that were my partners in, crime? I think? They were either Latino or Arabic. We were trying to outdo one other in terms of knife work. He would make some flourishes and some moves, then I would, then he would add some kicks and punches. It looked much like a kata.

There were also a couple of women. I can't remember one very well; she was thin and good-looking, I guess, dressed to go clubbing. She was probably about 18. (I was about 18, too.) The other one was with me, I supposed. She had light hair, down past her shoulders, wearing a tight white top and a short skirt. Her breasts were big-boob-specialty-porn large. I was either suspicious of her or afraid of her. Could have been fear, those breasts were just mammoth, the size of my head. Mammoth mammaries. Heh heh.

We all hung out and played pool then called it a night. The next night we did the same thing, but titty-woman and the other Latino-Arabic guy took off in a cab. I asked where they were going and the first Latino-Arabic said that they were going away to FUCK. He gave me a casual backhand across the chest implying that it was supposed to be me. I think these people were all criminals, or the guys were and the girls were groupies, hangers-on.

The next day, my parents drove me from where I was staying, down Parc Avenue in Montreal (it was like Ottawa and Montreal were the same city) and over to upper residence.

Then something incredibly sad happens. It deserves its own entry, adapted to express how the players must have felt, how I felt.

0 scrawls at the end of this hall

The look:
The feel:
The taste:
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