The Dream: The entire staff at work was sent on a “retreat”
to a hotel that was basically the Overlook but actually set in a Tennessee
motel in Chattanooga. I was sharing a room with my boss. The retreat was to
last 2-weeks, so I had decided to bring a significant amount of photos, etc. in
order to feel more at home for those two weeks. After we checked in and
realized our room smelled of fried foods, I began to nail various nails into
the walls to hang my photos. My boss took off into the hallway to ride a Big
Wheels around, looking for a vending machine.
Some stuff happened that I don’t remember, none of it having
to do with anything.
While my boss was out Big Wheeling it, I decided to open the
bottle of vodka that I had brought. Not having any mixer to use, I used the
mouthwash that was offered by the hotel watered down. It tasted like dessert at
the dentist.
My boss came back, frantic, telling me that they were no
longer offering soda. Instead, the vending machine apparently now looked like a
giant cow’s udder that dispenses only whole milk.
We sat on the bed, me sipping my horror, she sipping her
milk, talking about the ridiculousness of being there in the first place.
I decided it’s time to go.
I started taking down my hung photos, when my boss screams
and tells me how I had “totally fucked up the aesthetic” of the room, which
will cost me, according to a signed contract, upwards of $250,000.
I said, “That’s worth it to me” and sat down on a chair and
watched an episode of Jeopardy. My boss and I played separately, but together
in the room.
She beat me by 2 questions. But I slayed her at Modernist
European Drama.
The Interpretation: two bit bitch bait like a slackadasical comic
come reason beyond the hoot and give a bother fostered like foster was a joke
locked within your yoke and spelling out feelings like four-letter-words enough
to play out in awful justification because you silly don’t matter in the long
running of what you pretend to do and squat flatulence as a pore all the more
reason to sally your silly face like a two-bit high school whore who will fuck
whatever you get given less than what you deserve believing yourself lucky
you’re only sitting next to the guy on the plane who farts in your face and
tells you you’re lucky because hell at least he didn’t have a burrito for
dinner but still makes sure he’s off before you two buck sorrow an issue of
everyone’s bone marrow left open for the few the hungry and let’s just call it
awful in anger or regret two stubs in a month alone in a pointless shredding
given such strumping of your own demise purchased as a rant like a rave and the
trouble given source by the road ahead of you leaving Michael as hole in the
home makes wonder seem stupid it’s all a front to the futile point of pointing
to the west where the sun sets and drowns the best intentions like eulogies
roll your own, friend.
