Samantha (Stopgap)

Segmented onceafore. It worked last time. I'll just type and type and type until something pops up.

I guess I could talk about my reoccuring dreams, but I don't even know what they mean, and I dont remember all of them.

But, I've got fuckall to talk about, and this is my space. Plus, that whole "fighting T-Rex" thing has stopped happening.

I mean, I dream about my dad, but that's totally fuckin' expected.

Quick note. I dont want someone to spout about what these dreams mean. I don't know, I don't care. But I am physically elated when ever have these dreams. I'm thrilled and excited to see her. Samantha.

That's the only part of this I'm real sure on. There's a girl named Samantha. She first popped up just about a year ago, walking down the street. I was out front doing nothing, and my mom was talking with neighbors, and she just walks up. My age, with short, necklength brown hair. (Just gonna note real quick that, as much as I drone on about getting hard over redheads, they show up depressingly little in my dreams.) She walks up in...dah. I dont remember. this is one of the conflicting parts of it. Pants of some variation, maybe a t-shirt. Shirts never say anything, though. She hates that. Her face is...hard to describe, because perfect is relative, but for my likes, it's all good. Eyes arent too small, and are a brilliantly distracting hazel. Mouth looks small- at least, her lips are- but the shape of them is also rather nice. Ears are small and hidden under the hair, which is shimmering.
my
She walks down the street, and we just...look at eachother. I'm watering the yard, and start drowning the planter. She's in midstride, and awestruck (obviously by my Greek-statue like physique (that's a joke to those who dont know me)), as am I. There's something real familiar about her. I feel that, in the dream, I've seen her in a dream. She hesitantly takes a step.

"John?"

I'm taken aback. I mean, havent even met the bitch and she knows my name.

"Y-yeah. Are you..."

"Samantha. You look...just as I saw you."

From there, we talk for hours about...everything and nothing, it seemed. There werent enough hours in the day to talk to her, and she was eventually dragged home by her parents.

The next time she appeared in a dream, four months later (after unsucessfully trying to force dreams of her), I somehow ended up in a dress in Tokyo on new years, at a street side vending cart which is well lit, but has no one around for mile. She walks up again, this time in a loose, red dress. Through the course of THAT dream, I had gotten over the fact that I was in the dress in Tokyo etc etc. Even made some good business, but I couldn't remember what we were selling for the life of me, but she comes walking up, and everything else just freezes. And we talk again, for a while, but not enough, ended by my stupid need to interact in a concious world. But the precident set was that, like the first dream, I was genuinely excited by her presence, as if she's some part of my subconcious trying to bust out.

That's it. I'm a pretty, modest, brilliant brunette as well as a big fat spanish swede.

Anyways, the next time she showed up was three months later. I was at the zoo. I have no idea why I was at the zoo, but I was at the zoo. One of the many cafeteria deals, and I was there alone. I see a door open up, and bamf! There she is. The feeling returns. This is one of the three times I've clearly remembered what she wore: This time, it was a bright pink t-shirt, and blue jeans. Not tight, not baggy, but...well, relatively perfect. She walks right up to me, and kisses me on the cheek, pressing against me, and whispering, and says one of the only things I remember her saying.

"Something's wrong, and it's you, my dear."

The conversation wasn't at all ugly or anything. I was in a bad mood, and she eased me out of it, and conveniently, that was when I first realized I am responsible for my old, near constant state of unhappiness. Of course, I did fuck all to change it until another conversation months later with a real life friend that set me straight, but still, that's where the seeds were planted.

The next time, I was having a lucid dream, and was on my way to having a nightmare, and I got some hobo to help me wake up. And as I did, well, she came running and yelled "wait", but my eyes were already open. I didn't see her, I just heard her yell out. Her voice is distinct like that. A foreign accent I can't pick out.

The last time it happened was two nights ago. Sunday. The dream started, and I was in a resteraunt, with her. It was WAY classier than either of us are used to, and we looked like bums amongst the upper class. But damnit, we were there. This is the third time I remembered what she wore: a tight, gray and black long sleeved shirt. I recognized it later (as in, a few hours ago) that it was something my first ex wore the first time I saw pictures of her and her not-then-but-later husband. I digress. I dont know what she's got on besides that, but I know there's more, because A) my shoes rubbed against leather, leading me to believe it was some kind of boot she had on, adn B) She's not really one to dress in suggestive manners. Feels it's above her, and I'm inclined to agree. But the conversation never dragged, and aside from me nudging her foot, we never even touched. No food came, and none of the other patrons even existed for us. It was just us. Very comforting, and that thrill was still there. The dream ended when I stood up, and helped her up. Then I was rather suddenly, and abruptly awakened. There was no need for it. It was just...snap.

I dont think writing about her will prompt her to show up again. I don't know what happens, aside from a large dose of stress. But, the last time, I wasn't stressed. If anything, I think writing about her will stop her appearances, which is a real shame, because I enjoy her company.

Yeah. That's pretty much it for now.

Fatigued Musings (Stopgap)

DISCLAIMER: I wrote this at 2:45 in the morning to pass the time and put myself to sleep. I have not the time nor the will to go over it, so if someone's offended, my bad.
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I'm just going to start writing. Something will pop up, I'm sure.

This is the struggle of writing, at least for me. I have an incredible tool, as words come to me as natural as riding a bike. This also explains my hatred of bikes. However, the problem with my writing is that I am such a perfectionist, if I don't know for sure I don't have all the facts I need to construct something, whether it be a match review, or a diagnosis of an album, or my outlook on the current generation (and the shame they bring me)...if I don't have it all, I cannot bring myself to do it.

I have lots of similar problems. A few of them are showing up more often than usual, the biggest being my hatred of being helped with studies. I do feel in my heart that if I am enrolled within a class, I cannot allow anyone else to do the work for me. It shames me greatly, whether it is intended or not. It is deeply embarrassing to me to know I have not done something, and had to rely on someone else. Even if it's meant as help, I just cannot stand it. The worst part is that no matter how I have tried to convince myself otherwise, I can't get over this. It makes me wonder if there's something else behind it.

I'm lucky in a few ways, though. My life is going very well over all, if my largest problems are writer's block and refusing assistance.

Got it.

I've got all sorts of things that I need to get off my chest. Among them are stories of my own personal experiences, limited as they may be.

Shit. Opera just crashed. That's no good.

Anyways. What I'm gonna do is just let the stuff that's been building up within me pour out. Even if no one reads it, it'll feel good to say.

First, is this inherent feeling that no matter what I do, I ought to be apologizing for it. I do feel a lot of guilt in regular activities. Surprisingly, not masturbating, but more regular stuff. I just have this gut feeling that I'm fucking up somehow.

I mean, I know how I'm fucking up in one place, and that's not doing what I say I'm going to do. I'm trying to come to grips over a couple of changes I've been having to make, and I know it shouldn't be this difficult for me to just shut up and do it. Yet, hesitation is prevailant. I just wish I knew why.

There's another problem I have. My inherent need to know why things happen. That they happen and that I can change them is not good enough for me. This is something I do subconciously, too. If you've talked to me and known me to drag my feet for really stupid reasons (except regarding games, because I'm right on that issue), I just...huh. there it was again.

I'm not sure if I should apologize for being hesitant to some things. I mean, there are a lot of things I have done on the fly without properly thinking out everything that is/could be happening. I also don't know if I should stop thinking about it, or if I'm not doing enough when i know the answer to some of these questions. It's not like I'm always without grounds for it.

Conciousness is a shitty thing like this. So much of my life would be so much easier if I just stopped thinking about everything, but then I get concerned that if I dismiss as much as I might see that I ought to, that I'll leave out something that'll come back later to bite me in the ass. A real pickle.

Fuckin' hate dogs.

This whole Eddie thing is really making me rethink whether or not I should pursue being a wrestler full speed. I mean, I know that he had done a few illegal substances as well as wrestle, but the man was 38 when he died of heart failure. How is the risk of death, paralysis, and chronic pain sitll appealing after these things happen?

I know that if I put my mind to it that I could very well be the best wrestler alive. I'm not the most athletic guy, but Dick Murdoch wasn't exactly AJ Styles either. I'd like to think that if I start wrestling, I can phase out the "athlete first" aspect that is ever more prevalant. Upon much of the indy scene, there's these little flippity floppity shitheads who invent moves all the time, but can't tell a story to save their lives. By that logic, I know I can do this. The other half to this logic is knowing that without the physique, the fans might not notice me. I'm gonna need more than just a mask to get up there.

Had a crazy dream recently, and I think I'm gonna hold true to this one. If I get in 40s, I'm gonna look for my protege. He's going to be a homeless Hispanic male in his early 20s. I'm going to teach him the language of wrestling (and give English a good shot) and I want to give him a shot on his feet. I say Hispanic because of this simple reason; when I look in my heritage, it is not the Swedish blood that burns with passion and neverending spirit, but Spanish and of Native American. I accept this. I even embrace this, and I am aware that with this knowledge, I can find the man I am looking for. The man who has nowhere to go but up, the knowledge of what the bottom feels like, and the sheer strength of soul to get there. Or, who knows. He'll stab me and steal my credit cards and overdose on heroin. But this is a goal for me.

Fuck, I love pro wrestling. I'm willing to die for this shit. Sometimes, I don't even think twice about it. I'm sure that if both parties are careful, that only the most bizzare of accidents can hurt me. But injury and pain is a very real part of this business. I have too much honor and dignity to sink to painkillers and narcotics to keep me up to do this, but I don't know yet if I can handle being in pain all the time. More focused, I don't know if I can stand seeing my closest friends seeing me in constant pain, and I know that if one of them even begins to ask me to stop, I will.

I'm not sure what chivalry means, but it interests me a great deal.

"Take Me Back Then" by Days of the New is looping in my head. It's something about the singing. I think I'll hear it in my dreams.

My ultimate goal is to be able to call myself a wise man, but not brag about it. Wisdom is so much better than intellect. One can know all there is to know about any given subject, but it means shit if they cant tell you what it felt like the first time they got the "let's be friends" speech. Wisdom has more humanity to it. It's almost a romantic concept.

Romantic. There's another stickler of a word for me. Gotta look that one up.

And I've got to start studying French again. There are so many things I want to say that'll sound so much better in a foreign language.

My dad's epitaph says something like "Let the work I have done speak for me." I want to go out like that, too. I'd take much more relief in knowing that each time out, I did my best.

I'm not sure if I still want to be a bassist. I've got to start getting together with my other musician friends more often

I've also gotta call two others. I'ts been nearly two years since I spoke to one, and one year since I spoke to the other. I still have the latter's copy of Super Mario Sunshine, and the first disc of his version of FF9. They were both irredeemable human beings when I last left them. I'm keen to see if both have sunken into their habits (former a martial artist, latter a druggie in training)

One day, you'll figure it out. Until then, just appreciate the scope of it, and the warmth that comes with, ah?

It feels like babbling, but it also feels good.

I think what I'm going to do now is snap off a load and fall asleep praying. It's how my nights usually end.

~MST