what i remember

by plermpt

i knew a girl with the ability to eloquently recall every detail from her bizarre dreams. i do my best when recalling my own bizarre dreams, but there are so many details lost within the chaotic transitions that i often only recall the very last course of action.

on a mission

Surrounding the bloody chain that hung from the warehouse’s lofty ceiling was a nervous, quiet crowd. I stripped in front of them and began to climb the swing despite slipping on it’s mysterious blood. Once my grip was maintained I kicked my feet to swing back and forth. In this process I kicked someone’s face with my bloody foot before breaching the physics of the pendulum and swinging the entire length of the warehouse, staring up towards its black ceiling of tiny glowing specks. The curator didn’t approve: “Look, you’ve done this already, don’t you remember?” I interpreted her words to mean, “You’re a jackass. Go to the zoo.”

I ran naked through the zoo’s forest trails and pushed a block of cheese down a milky stream of jungle foam using only my toes. I surfed on jungle cheese in the stream running beside the zoo’s bus tour route, waving to zoo patrons and new zoo friends that smiled and waved back. The sky was “gypsy gray with metal makeup.” People adored my naked antics. I never stopped moving, never wanted to stop moving, and never felt tired. The zoo was my new calling and there was a rope made from apes in the empty lab.

Finally out of breath, I relaxed naked and covered in loamy dirt with some new zoo friends on the patio behind the llama cages. The patio was surrounded by a twelve foot fence, behind which was a verdant thicket of jungle brush. I was drinking beer and being my fun loving self amongst my new zoo friends when a disrespectful bald man wearing an unbuttoned denim jacket and reminiscent of Vaughn from David Cronenberg’s 1996 film Crash pushed me into the patio’s corner. As I threw my hands up to signal peace he took his pants off and spit in my face; the definitive signal for war. I am no longer my fun loving self as I pick his pants from the patio floor and tear them at the crotch. The rude bald man spits again and it lands on my cheek. I toss his pants over the wall but he is unconcerned until he notices that I am holding his phone, which fell from his pocket as I tossed his pants.

Suddenly and unsurprisingly he wants to reconcile. I hold his phone flimsily and, letting my wrist limp, bop his bald head with it. He flinches, cowers and drops his beer. I smack his face again and again with a flick of my wrist until he turns fetal with his eyes shut tightly. A window of a profile for a furries social networking website opens on his phone for each smack the bald man receives. When I notice I stop slapping him to advise my new zoo friends to investigate this furry social network, saying, “if it’s not cool kill him.”

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