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I dreamed last night that I was almost shot in the head, but at the last minute I was like, "no, uh, wait..." and then I turned and walked away from the man with the gun. He was shooting folks one by one. It was creepy.

I'm glad in my dreams I seem to realize that I have choices. I fare much better in my dream life than I do my real life. Being shot seems to be a recurring theme for me. I think that's how my subconscious mind portrays trauma. In fact I remember a friend calling me just a few days after my little brother's death, and all I could say was, "it feels like my entire family was lined up against a wall and shot, all of us, one by one..."

She really didn't know how to respond to that. Oh! Speaking of being machine-gunned against a wall! I don't think I've ever mentioned this in a blog before, but when I was 16 and working at an ice-cream store, I was scooping up this old man a nice cone, and as I handed it to him, I happened to notice that he looked JUST LIKE Al Capone, and I couldn't resist saying so. And the funny thing is, he just stood there, all wide-eyed, peered straight into my eyes and said, "I can't believe you said that." I thought I had offended him, but no, as it turns out, his dad had been one of the men who were shot in the St. Valentine's Day Massacre. And the weird thing was, according to him, nobody had ever told him he looked like Al Capone before. As he took his cone and moved down the line I noticed he gave me a second glance over his shoulder.
That's not the first second glance I've ever gotten, the kind of glance that says, I'm not so sure about you...

What on earth was I talking about. Oh yes. My walking away from the understanding gunman. After I walked away from his methodical shooting spree, I walked and walked, and this smile just busted out upon my face for no reason, until I found myself walking right into the back door of my old childhood home. I had a grocery bag with me and it had two bottles of champagne, which I left in the kitchen, and walked to my old bedroom, where I started laughing and arranging things, it was a happy thing. That is until I found myself unpacking from a box that contained one of my dead uncle's belongings, and they weren't even his good belongings. It seemed to be the contents of his bathroom cabinet or something: nasty old toothbrushes and a disgusting fake beard? Do men even wear fake beards? Looking back on this uncle, there's no way his beard was fake. It was very much alive and it was all him. This is the uncle that worked as a bouncer at the strip clubs on Harry Hines and Industrial. And when I saw the toothbrushes and the fake beard, it made me want to throw up, and that's how I woke up.

I'm so glad I'm separating my blogs like this. I don't think God would appreciate it very much if I posted this rubbish among the other ones that I'm SUPPOSED to share. But I can't help it. Once something is in written form, it's processed and I can move on. Or maybe I just made that up in order to justify my blogging habit.