dream – The Diary of The Deranged Writer

LVIII: Sanctum

As I grew older, so did my desire to have my own home. And I must work so hard so I can afford a spacious, comfortable place that I can call my sanctuary.

Dream Log II: The Deranged Writer’s Struggle with Steinermania VII

I have been struggling with terminal Steinermania for several months now, and it’s getting more ridiculous because my mind has created dreams that involve “Big Poppa Pump” Scott Steiner. And because today is the birthday of the greatest mathematician in the multiverse and the greatest physical phenonemon, here is one of those absurd dreams.

(Yes. Phenonemon. Don’t argue with the spelling. That’s how he says it.)

Another Conversation Among Deranged Writers II: Notes to Self XXXI

2019

One humid yet emotionally cold afternoon, I was missing someone more than usual, even though it had been months since our bridge burned. And then I remembered it was that person’s birthday. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to send a simple, casual greeting for the occasion, so I pulled my phone, quickly texted it, and went on with my normally depressing day.

Past midnight, after pigging out on my third plate of baked macaroni in four hours, I took my nightly medicine and dozed off. There, I was teleported to a part of dreamland I’d never been before, and I’m a pretty vivid dreamer. I entered this almost-vast coliseum-like courtroom with chains covering the ceiling, and people were in their chairs like confident judges. After a minute, my eyes became much clearer: the ones in their seats were alternate versions of me.