Book #2: Chapter 10 - Three Corners

I fell asleep once. It was amazing.

In my dream, I lived in Nebraska. Not the state of Nebraska; a house shaped like Nebraska. I think it was in Wyoming, but it didn't come up. It was so boring. It was like time was moving backwards twice as fast as it normally does. Then, I went to Three Corners. That's the place where Utah, Colorado, and Wyoming meet. It was the most deserted literally place I'd ever dreamt of. It was so beautiful. Too beautiful. I couldn't handle it. I put a gun in my mouth.

So, whatever. I have some rough dreams sometimes. Like the time I dreamt that I didn't have a penis. Oh, I didn't dream I was a girl. I just dreamed that my genitalia disappeared. My family ran away, and I sat in my room all day drinking iced tea like the alien overlords were coming to not really do anything to us but ban us from drinking iced tea, and I had to go to the bathroom, more and more and more, until I almost died. Suddenly I woke up, realized I had to go to work at my crummy tech support job, and I almost died. Then, I got to work, realized I had to go the bathroom, or "use the facilities" as they say back east, for real. And almost died. But then I got caught on a call with some old lady who didn't know how to single click a mouse and I wet myself. A couple of minutes later, I almost died. Later, I went to the bathroom and dried off my tears.

That afternoon, I wanted to die even more. Then suddenly I remembered it was Friday, so I drove fifty miles, bought myself a burger and a sundae, then went back to my apartment and got completely fucked up on Wild Turkey and Hawaiian Punch. The next morning, I threw up some aspirin I took between having a dream about having to shave Michael Chiklis' nugget pouch and having a dream about building a bridge to nail Paula Poundstone. But when I got there, she was gorgeous and wanted to buy me a cabin in the woods. I was grossed out because I was expecting her to look like herself, so I threw up all over Interstate 75. Five minutes later I threw up in my bed. Ten minutes later I took some more aspirin. Six hours later, I went and ate some sausages, and spent the rest of the day watching Bob Ross.

When I was a kid, I always watched Bob Ross when I was hung over. Wait, that's no good. I'm hung over now, I think. No. I was trying to say I used to watch Bob Ross when I was sick.

I watched Bob Ross a lot.

I implied I was crying because my job sucked, not because I couldn't hold it in anymore, cause I totally could and so I totally did. I sort of wanted to though, because I felt like I would finally fit in among the other people who acted like four year olds. Four year olds get such a bad rap. They probably don't even wet themselves either. They do throw tantrums sometimes, and I'm pretty sure they don't know how to use a spell checker. Though that's probably mean too. Four year olds know better than that.

I worked with a guy who killed himself. I probably could have stopped him from doing it. I almost died. It was so goddamned embarrassing. I swear I almost died. Most people were horrified that they didn't do anything either. But they didn't almost die. One guy I didn't really know said "hey, at least we outlived that fucker!"

I almost died. Then, I almost killed him. I was 1 for 2 that day.

Mrs. Stapleton heard him and gasped. She went through all the motions, holding her hand to her mouth, patting her blue hair, tugging on the tails of her rumpled old blouse. I took off. I'm not sure what else Mrs. Stapleton said. It probably involved paperwork. Mrs. Stapleton wasn't her real name. Actually, I don't remember her name. We called her Mrs. Stapleton because she always wasted all the staples.

The other day I tripped over the yellow pages. Earlier that day, I tripped over my words in front of a person I'd never met before. Later that afternoon, I fell up the stairs. In my head. Ten years earlier, I fell up the stairs for real. Eight years later, this guy I knew killed himself. Ten years later, something interesting might happen. Ask me again in ten years. I'll know more then.

I had another dream. I took a trip with Nicole Kidman to the outback. The real one, not the one downtown that serves cold baked potatoes. The one where a bird of paradise flew up my nose. It was all freaky and blue, and then red; the drapes were okay but somebody had put in hardwood floors. Anyway, you probably wouldn't want to hear about it. It gets kind of suicidal and ranty at the end.

A couple of years back, I worked with this guy. He killed himself. His name was Brian.

Brian Reynard.

My name was Motorbike St. Francis.

Brian Reynard told Motorbike St. Francis he was thinking about killing himself, but Motorbike didn't listen. Motorbike thought that was just how people coped with life sometimes. By talking about getting rid of theirs.

A couple of years back, I wanted to check out the real Three Corners. It wasn't beautiful. It was the middle of a field somewhere. You couldn't really get to it. There was a cow in the way. It was bad. There were cow pies, and wheat grass. And electrified fences. It was bad. It was not beautiful.

I still put a gun in my mouth.

Rule 91: Don't go to Three Corners.

Dreamt. Dreamed. Dreamt. Dreamed. Dreamted.

You ever feel like somebody donkey punched you while you were asleep?

...Yeah, me either.

Labels: A Book for Oprah's Book Club, Chapter 10, Three Corners