This is an extraordinary testament to the importance of having a president who understands the power of diplomacy, and understands the strength that rests in understanding the significance of diplomacy and strengthening alliances.  ~ Kamala Harris

Happy Birthday, Mary…I miss you always.

Dream #783

As usual, the sun doesn’t shine in my dreams, even though it is daytime.  I’m waiting for The Bus, which pulls up.  William S. Burroughs is driving.  We don’t speak as I board…he nods slowly at me, I nod back at him.
I make my usual way to the back of The Bus.  This time, I find myself sitting next to Charles Bukowski, who is writing.
“Whatcha writing?” I ask, looking nosily at his notebook.  Without stopping writing or looking up, he replies, “I’m writing a letter of apology to my penis for last night.”
“What happened to your penis last night?”
“I stuck it…pretty much against its will…into this ugly Mexican whore.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Just awful.  And I gave her way too much money.”
“How much is too much?”
“For that nasty trick?  I gave her 60.  Maybe worth 20.”
“It’s important to not overpay in those situations,” I say, having no idea what I’m talking about.
We drive on in mostly silence…Burroughs is up front mumbling darkly about orgones or something.
“The whole scene was just derelict,” Bukowski finally says.  “It was this awful cinderblock building, I think it used to be a smog-check place, and now it’s a whorehouse.  The whole vibe was off.”
“Proper ambiance is absolutely critical in those situations.”
Bukowski looks up for the first time, and starts laughing raucously.  “See…you get it.”
He punches me lightly in the arm and then returns to his notebook.
“I hope your penis forgives you,” I say.
“Always does,” he says.  “Little fucker always does.”
Burroughs slams on the brakes and shouts, “Motherfucker!  They moved it again!”
“What did they move, Bill?”
“The End.”
“The end of what, Bill?”
“The End of the Woooooorld…they moved it.  It’s supposed to be 10 miles up, but it’s here already.”
I bend down next to Bill to look out of the windshield: the road suddenly ends, drops off into infinity…then there is just nothing.
“Then this is probably my stop,” I say, far too jauntily for the occasion.
The dream ends when my puppy wakes me up by sticking her tongue in my ear.

This is it.  This has to be it, dear reader.  Ten days of meat and water.  I’m ready for it to be over.  I’ve proved whatever it was I set out to prove…I guess mainly that I can, in fact, survive and even thrive without caffeine or sugar.  Actual noticeable benefits: most significant is probably this feeling of steadiness or constantness (that’s not a word, so I guess “consistency
would be the closest available option) with each day, as opposed to constant ups and downs, highs and lows, of energy and focus.  I just wake up at a certain energy level, and that pretty much maintains throughout the entire day and evening.

I don’t know if I’ve adapted to this and just gotten used to it already, but I think I might be having a hard time stopping the carnivore diet.  I fully intended to have a huge sugary coffee drink this morning, but I didn’t.  It just didn’t happen.  I guess I didn’t really want it.  Which is kind of weird.

UPDATE: Okay, officially off the diet.  Had a sugary drink with lunch, and then I had an ice cream cone and good Christ now I feel like I did an entire Scarface-mound of coke.  I don’t even want to sit down.  Feels kinda gross.  No more sugar today.

N.P.: “California Sober (feat. Chris Stapleton)” – Post Malone