I spent the first few hours of my 21st birthday cleaning. In fact, I spent much of my Birthday Eve cleaning too (If Jesus' birthday gets an Eve, mine does too). However, I won't pass along many details about tidying up, just a few.
First, I went to some weird ass janitorial supply shop. Apparently, the man who owns it has made quite the living as a cleaning-person. Well, pin a stick on his dick. Pretty much all of the available cleaning products were "Dan Aslett Certified!" I suppose that's not the weird part. The oddest thing I saw was his biography . . . his cleaning-based memoirs. Now, I understand if your career is a big part of your life--I suppose I could write my memoirs about scanning toilet paper and weighing bananas--but if you've risen through the ranks of janitors and made it to the top of the tidy-bitch world, should I really be that intrigued about any advice you have to give? So you cleaned the White House toilet, and the President's a dribbler. Awesome. Frankly, I'd much rather be the lowest-of-the-low in a field like, say, law than the highest porter of all time. My guess is that the crusty urine stains of the rich and famous look quite similar to the crusty urine stains of the homeless. What useful information could this guy possibly have to give? Anyway, to make a long story short: I'm not buying his fucking book.
Since not much has happened on my birthday as of yet--'tis only 2 o'clock AM--I think I'll keep blabbing about my Birthday Eve. Continuing that motif, I should very much like to take this opportunity to relate a dream I had last night.
A nameless woman and I were being evicted from our home. Apparently we were in foreclosure or some shit. We spent much of the afternoon looking for cheap, ready-to-move-into homes that were in good shape. We ran into some weird fuckers, but nothing really suited our fancy. So we decided to get a room in a motel. We got our room key and started walking to the room. I noticed some people strapped to pool chairs, their backs on the ground with their legs up in the air. Clearly, something was amiss, but I went to my room anyway.
Since time doesn't flow logically in dreams, I'm not certain how long this woman and I stayed there. But one day we were strolling around the premises when we ran into a strange man. He had a closely cropped mustache; it ran across his entire upper lip but was extremely thin. The man, he called himself Prince Nicholas, was wearing a hat, the kind of hat you see old men wear while fishing. Prince Nicholas ran frantically around the motel grounds, pestering people, moving on when his current projects ignored him and finding more people to annoy. As he got closer, we heard what he was saying.
"I'm Prince Nicholas! Kick my ass!" he said, oddly insistent. "I'm Prince Nicholas! Kick my ass!" He repeated over and over, brandishing his khaki-covered nether region to anyone who paid him any mind.
No one was willing to kick this old man's ass; Prince Nicholas grew agitated. He sauntered up to the woman and me, insisting that we kick his ass. We, like all the other patrons, refused. Well, he really wanted his ass kicked, so he started needling into "my woman" (nevermind that I can't recall who she was). I'm not sure, but I think he started ragging about her weight. That was the last straw for her, so she indulged the man's ass-kicking wish. She gave him one swift pop to the anus, her foot like a battering ram to his butt castle.
One kick. That's all it was. But that was enough. The old man promptly collapsed to the ground and began dissolving. The floor upon which Prince Nicholas once stood began to cave in. My girl screamed, "Oh my God! It's a giant asshole!" In a wakeful state, looking back on this narrative, I'm not sure how--or why--she noticed this hole looked like an anus, but my dream-self agreed.
The motel started to quiver and shake, little bits of plaster falling from the ceiling. We ran from the newly-formed motel-butt. We turned a corner and came face-to-face with, well, a face. A giant fucking face. The motel's giant fucking face. Apparently, Prince Nicholas was this motel's manservant or something. His demise caused the motel to awaken.
We ran from the giant face. Be honest; you would too. The long rows of cars in the parking lot began to turn into legs. A hand swept by us. The people who had been strapped into the lounge chairs were now upright; the motel was standing up. The nameless woman and I ran through the exterior corridors of the motel, oddly-numbered doors flashing by.
Namless and I knew we had to leave the motel (I so wanted to write "check out", but that seemed a bit too Bruce-Willis-Diehard-witticism to me). Luckily, the motel was prime seafront property. Hell yeah! We ran toward the bay, vaulted off the second floor of the Motelman, and landed in the sea. The motel proceeded to walk into the other bay--I guess we were on a peninsula--and started to splash in the water like one of those retarded kids you see playing in wading pools. I looked at my companion and, surprisingly, neither of us was surprised at what had just happened. All that mattered was we had checked out (I couldn't help myself; cry about it, bitch) of the motel safely.
And that's the dream. What a fine fucking present from my id. I don't know what it means, and I don't really care to find out. It can't be good. I'm thinking my laundry is about done, so I think it's time I head my ass to bed. When I wake up, it will still be my birthday. I'll be moving into a new apartment and probably doing irreversible damage to my back by lifting heavy boxes the wrong way.
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