Good morning, everybody.
I was in the apartment of an older couple. It was like the older couple were throwing a slumber party. The older couple may not have been wealthy, but they may have acted wealthy. I was here with at least one other person, probably a girl. It seemed like the other person and I were the age I am in waking life. But sometimes it felt like we may have been little kids, or at least treated like little kids.
At one point I was laying on the couch, under a blanket. A movie may have been playing on the TV, which was beyond the crown of my head, so that I couldn't see it. The old man may have been sitting on my legs. I really didn't want him to be sitting on my legs. I wanted to move around. Then I understood that the old man thought I was actually turned on by what he was doing. He was acting like he was going to have sex with me. I was disgusted and a little afraid.
I had managed to get out from under the old man. I was in the room next to the living room. This room was dim and cluttered. It wasn't a room that quite seemed to have any particular use, even though it was full of stuff. It may have been like a little entrance lobby for the house. The entrance may have been set up a bit on the wall, with a staircase down. Then around the room there may have been a little level like a balcony. On the balcony there may have been a staircase up to a second floor, which I couldn't see.
I went back into the living room. The old man, the old woman, and the girl were all in there. There were probably two couches, one on the wall near me and one on the wall opposite me. Both couches had been folded out and turned into beds, and everybody was deciding how they wanted to sleep for the night. I think the old man had decided he wanted to sleep with me. Because of this, I told everybody that I wasn't actually going to stay for the slumber party.
I went back into the next room. I was fiddling around with some of the clutter in the room, like it was mine and I was getting it together in preparation for leaving. I knew my apartment was just across the street from the old couple's apartment.
But now I remembered a couple of things. It may have been storming outside. There was also some danger outside, like people following me. In fact, the danger of the people following me was why I and the girl had come to have this slumber party with the old couple in the first place. If I left now, I'd have to brave the storm. I'd also have to risk being seen and followed into my own house by the people who were after me.
I reflected on this a little, telling myself I didn't need to be afraid. If I was protected in the house of the old couple, why wouldn't I be protected in my own house? The old couple didn't have anything extra protecting them. They only acted rich. They weren't really rich. And the old man was already trying to attack me in his own way.
So I decided I'd leave for sure. But when I went out to tell everybody I was finally leaving, I looked to see that the person I'd been assigned to sleep with was now the girl. The girl may have looked like my sister. But I felt a lot safer sleeping in bed with the girl than sleeping in bed with the man. Plus, the girl was attractive. I thought it might be fun to spend the night in bed with her.
I lay down on the bed. I was now in some other room, probably on the second floor of the older couple's apartment. I lay on a couch, on my side, under some blankets. The older woman sat in a nice chair by a nice table with a lamp on it. The girl sat somewhere else in the room.
The older woman began asking me all kinds of questions that were supposed to have to do with my level of culture. The way I answered the questions showed how cultured, refined, and civilized I was. But she was asking all the questions in a way that implied that she already knew I wasn't very cultured at all. I may have answered most or all of the questions correctly. But I always had a bad attitude when answering, and I may have suffixed my answers with rude comments.
Eventually the older woman may have gotten into questions which required a lot more thought on my part. When I tried to concentrate on the answers, my mind began wandering. My answers became a tangle of actually answering the question and trying to prove, through aspects of my life history and my own personal intellect and emotions, that I deserved to be thought of as cultured.
But during one of these rambling answers, I actually got a look at my right leg. The right side of my leg, just beside my shinbone, had a hole bored in it. The skin all around the hole was still there. There was just a hole. But all the muscle below the hole was gone. It was just like there was a hollow space, maybe 12cm long, bored into my leg, under my skin. I had some other injuries on my leg, but this one was the worst. It didn't hurt. But I thought it meant bad news for me, like some terminal degenerative disease.
A woman, and possibly her husband, came into the room with a couple of kids. The couple and children were all poorly dressed, overweight, and sloppy. They asked me if I needed a ride home. I already knew that their car was horrible, and that riding home in their car would be an awful experience. So I said no. This made them really upset. But they left anyway. Not long after this, the woman must have dismissed me.
I walked out of the woman's place and headed home. It was like the woman had lived in a mansion. But when I walked out of the place, I was in an industrial looking part of town. All the buildings were tall and boxy, glaring under the bright light of day. All the streets felt desolate and empty.
I walked through one block of streets, then crossed a street. I walked into mid-block space that felt like an alley. As I got into the alley I got a chance to think about my leg again. Was it really safe for me to be walking on my leg like I was, with so much muscle bored out of it? I wondered if my leg could just collapse or break in half while I was walking.
The more I thought about it, the worse I began to feel about my leg. I don't think I ever felt pain. Rather, I think I just got more and more squeamish about the appearance of my leg, until finally even putting weight on my leg made me disgusted. I couldn't put my leg back down on the ground. I was just hopping on my left leg and waving my right leg in the air.
Finally, I was so disgusted with the whole situation that I leaned against a wall. I turned back in the direction that I had come from and started screaming. A car was coming up the alley. I knew that if the drivers saw me in agony, they'd stop for me. Maybe they'd offer me a ride. So as soon as I saw the car, I screamed as melodramatically as I could.
The car drove slowly up to me and then stopped. Now I could see who it was. It was the family that had offered me a ride at the woman's mansion. Their car was a shade of midnight blue in places, with the paint job really sparkly. But the car was all dented and bashed in. And whole patches -- whole square patches -- of the car were repainted in various shades of dull black and dull blue. The interior of the car was no better. I could see that it had all been torn up.
The woman of the family was driving the car. She looked terrible. The husband also looked terrible. Their faces were all messed up, like they had been in a lot of fist fights. Their eyes may even have been twisted around in weird ways. There may have been two kids in the backseat: a boy and a girl: pretty, tan, with pale-blonde hair.
The woman asked me if I wanted a ride. I told her no. But now she was really upset. She said something like this time she wouldn't take no for an answer, and that if I was going to say no, I was going to pay for it. The woman was going to do something physically violent to me. But I didn't know what.
A view of Mr. Rogers in an empty room, dancing. The room had deep blue carpet and white walls. The walls were really tall, and the room was wide and long. Mr. Rogers stood at the back end of the room, dancing in place.
At first Mr. Rogers looked like his usual self: short hair, button-up shirt, sweater, and slacks. His hair was a little darker than usual, and he looked a little younger than usual. I thought I must have been watching an old show of his. At some points, I may have had views in my mind's eye of Mr. Rogers standing by a window and watering some plants.
But then the dancing Mr. Rogers started looking a lot weirder. His hair grew out really long, and he was now wearing a deep blue flannel shirt and blue jeans. His dancing became a lot weirder, too. He kept dancing in place, but he was flailing all over the place.
My view lifted up into a high view, like I was looking down from the ceiling. Two announcers began speaking. They were talking about how Mr. Rogers had been gay, and how he had basically given himself up to a whole lot of the top men in Hollywood.
One announcer said something about how Mr. Roger's memoirs, which spoke about all his sexual affairs, were like a who's who of the entertainment industry. The announcer mentioned one actor he was particularly surprised to see on Mr. Roger's list of lovers.
My view shifted downward and a bit to the left. I could now see a doorway on the right wall, near the back end of the room. Mr. Rogers continued dancing.
The other announcer said, "And William Shatner. That was a big surprise, too. Who would have guessed William Shatner was a waif?"
I had an image in my mind's eye of a long walkway fading into the distance. The walkway was either made out of concrete or gym-mat material. It had a brownish-tan color.
Back in the room, I understood that what the announcer had meant by calling William Shatner a "waif" was that William Shatner often played out sexual fantasies where he was a young, waif-like fashion model. Shatner would be very submissive to the man playing out the sexual fantasy opposite him.
I now had a peacock feather before me. The feather was held upside down, and all the hairlike parts of the feather surrounding the blue eyes were frayed out and tattered.
I had come out of some room, where I had possibly been engaged in some activity with two attractive brunette women. I walked into a dim kitchen. The kitchen was really cluttered with food that either hadn't been put away or couldn't be put away because there was no more space.
My mom was in the kitchen. It was like she was part of whatever I'd been a part of, or else she'd been waiting for me to finish it. Now she'd drive me home.
But first, my mom may have told me she was going to eat something out of the kitchen. She asked if I'd like something. She listed off a few things this kitchen had. Most of the stuff didn't sound good to me. But she mentioned those peanuts with the pink candy shell that you can sometimes get out of vending machines. I really liked those.
But I still didn't know if I really wanted to eat right now. My mom got really angry and offended. She told me she'd made an offer to me, and how could I refuse it? I relented and said I'd take some of those candy peanuts.
My mom happily walked to some part of the kitchen where I couldn't see her. When she came back she told me that the vending machine was all out of peanuts. She asked if she could get me something else. She said that some other things were gone, too. So she told me a new list of things that I could have.
I really didn't want anything. I hadn't really even wanted the candy peanuts. I told my mom I might just wait until we got back home to eat. I hoped I could appease her by telling her that when we got to the house, she could cook me something, if she liked. It was just that I wasn't hungry right now, and nothing here was really interesting me. I hoped this would satisfy my mom. But I had a feeling she'd still be angry.