America I have horrible nightmares at best once a week. I’m talking wake up covered in sweat and physical tired from running in my dream. I have woken up with scratches on my face, bruises on my body, and once a dislocated shoulder. Somebody please figure that one out. I beat the crap out of myself at night and its the major reason I don’t like to let woman sleep in my bed. Nothing to do with my fear of commitment and abandonment issues almost done with those. Its all about accidently beating the crap out of her while I’m sleeping. But why am I telling you this? Regret. You see my reacquiring dreams are all my gruesome death. I have died in literally every way conceivable, Shot, burned, stabbed, hung, skinned, poisoned, run over by a car, truck and train, hack to pieces, fallen to death and shot to death by zombies with guns while covering my friends escape but that one I actually liked. Zombies with guns how cool would that be? What a good death it was epic I stayed alive to fire off every bullet I had as they riddled me. As I died I could see my friends escape. What a death but moving on. Is it a nightmare if you like the death? Anyway…
What I’m getting at is regret. I’m not a dream interpreter and it doesn’t take a shrink to figure these out anyway. I have seen a lot of death cut and dry. I just want to tell you about a dream I had a week ago and one last night which reminded me. Last night I dreamed of putting my dog down again. Ze Arnold Scarface in my arms, his soft hair, drool everywhere and his odorous stink. God I miss his stink. It was so real and painful to see him slip away after 23 great years. I spent more time with that dog then my father and that’s not an exaggeration. Got the dog when Dad came back and stole the dog when I moved away. God I loved that dog and as horrible the dream was it was nice in a sick pathetic way to hold my big bro again(my entire life the dog outweighed me and I always wanted a brother).
This reminded me of a dream last week where I was being brutally murdered on my farm. Remember the scene in private ryan when the jewish guy has a knife stabbed through his chest incredibly slowly yeah had that dream and let me say not fun. That one was up there with the killer clown hacking off my limbs as I go on a run away roller coaster or being pined down with no food in a rice paddy by charlie and they try to temp me out with well rice paddies but the edible kind not swamp. Any way what I’m getting at is while attempting to slow the knife entering my chest I was home on the farm. I could smell the wood beams in the house, the smoke of the wood stove, I could see the funny old doors, and all my Dad’s CDs. It was all so real and nice to be home even with a knife being stabbed into my chest. I have not been home in four years. Really only twice in six. Once to go to Dad’s funeral and another to pick up my stuff. This leads me to my only regret in this life of mine. Leaving my Dad to die. No nicer way to put it. I was 23 my Dad had AIDS and he wanted to die. Not only did I have to leave to save myself mentally I had to leave because everyday I risked getting AIDS being his care giver. I cracked, we fought, I told him I wanted him to live, but couldn’t watch him die anymore. He had been in bed dying for years at that point. I left him to die in the care of nurses and we never even had a legal drink together at a bar. This, in my eyes, has been my only failure in life and I never want to forget it. To save myself I abandoned my father and moved to the big city. It started well enough, I got back into college was working a legal job as a hotel engineer, but when he died I knew I left him and the crime began. We all left him the entire family. Some could make the excuse I was the youngest of the cowards or we are all responsible for our own lives, but I feel age is not as significant as most Americans and we should always help each other no matter what the risk. I study the old days where 15 year olds were midshipmen on frigates in charge of four guns in a battle or the battle of warsaw during WW2 where little kids ran ammo and messages to the front lines. I never want to forget leaving Dad because I failed. You never leave your loved ones no matter what and here I am five years later, the farm gone and no family. A hard lesson to learn, but one I honor for my Dad. I will never run again. I will never live with this burden of regret again. Left only with memories and nightmares all I can do is mourn in my dank little down town apartment.
Learn from me America that’s what I write for. The only sin in this life is regret and fuck I sinned. But I will never make that mistake again. Fight the hard fight America. Stick with your loved ones family or not. Even if you save yourself a piece of you dies with them.
P.S. I dont want any comments about o that’s sad poor guy. Don’t be pussies America and get your heads out of your asses. Just want to illustrate the importance of fighting the good fight and I use my life as a catalysis to smack you in the balls and get your attention. Don’t get all lifetime channel on me just trying to prove a point. Now go fuck something America. Give God a high five and bring down the wrath on the fine asses he made, Wear a condom. Peace Out.
Long Live the Writers
O yeah and buy my book America only way your getting edits. Playing Your Hand Right: Showing America How To Live 4.7 out of 5 rating on Amazon.com. Link Below. Help spread the word of the new indie author. Lived by me, written by me, and sure as shit not edited by me. I mean look at this America I had way to much good times and sex in school to focus on grammar. Worth it.