Four weeks ago on the night before I boarded a plane to Seattle, I had a dream about Sarah.  It was a recurring dream that I had been having for about three months.  It was not a pleasant dream in any regard and it always left me with a worthless feeling.  The dream was that Sarah worked at Starbucks and it went like this:  I’m sitting at a table when I hear her voice behind the counter.  I turn around and see her although she doesn’t see me.  Terrified, I get on my hands and knees and crawl out of the store, carefully making sure that she doesn’t see me.  When I get outside, I cry uncontrollably until I wake up.  The dream is vivid and frighteningly realistic.  It takes place at the same Starbucks store that I go to almost every day.  It’s the same Starbucks where I go to be a tool and order pretentious espresso drinks and “chai tea” lemonades.  It’s the same Starbucks where I go to hang out with all the other jackholes with laptops and write, study, blog, look cool, listen to easy-listening adult contemporary music and partake in other forms of postmodern coffeehouse douchebaggery.   It’s the same Starbucks where I go to escape real life because Starbucks is the only place in the real world that does not remind me of Sarah.  So when I first had this dream three months ago I felt angry and upset that she had infiltrated my only haven.  Furthermore, I felt defeated because the Universe wasn’t going to let me forget her in real life or in the dreamscape.

However, the dream I had before my trip to Seattle was different.    It began the same way with me sitting at a table and hearing Sarah’s voice.  But when I turned around I saw Sarah and Rachel (a girl I see frequently at Starbucks) arguing over the tip jar.  The only thing from their argument that I remember being said was Rachel retorting, “…because it’s a real five-dollar bill.”  When I woke up I felt a mixture of emotions.  I was frustrated for having dreamed about Sarah again.  I was confused for having dreamed about a girl who I had only a mild crush on (Rachel).  I also felt a newfound respect for authentic five-dollar US notes.  But most shockingly was that, for the first time, I woke up from a dream about Sarah without feeling depressed.

I’m not a dream interpreter so I don’t know if dreams mean anything more than what they are.  If they do, then what they mean is something that I’ll never understand, and I’m fine with not knowing what transcendent meaning lies underneath whatever I think about when I’m sleeping.   But, this dream affected my life probably a lot more than it should have.  It was an episode of transient happiness.  As a despondent individual who struggles with finding real happiness, transient happiness, despite how inane or mundane it is, gets me through a day. 

People around me seem genuinely concerned that I have dreams like this.  I’m generally perceived as someone who cannot “get over” someone from the past and people would like to see me “move on” and find someone else to bother.  I can certainly understand the spirit of their sentiment because I know that these people have nothing but my best interests in mind.  I genuinely want real happiness, but I know that I don’t deserve it.  Finding love is like playing the lottery.  The lottery is designed to allow regular schmucks like me and you a chance to win a shitload of money.  However, no one plays the lottery because they need the money, but people play because no one will deny that a little extra money will make them happy.  Everyone would like to win a million dollars, but most people don’t go out of their daily routine to pursue a million dollars.  Some people play the lottery for the big jackpot, while some people play just to win whatever amount of money they can get.  Furthermore, no one deserves to win the lottery.  It’s fun to play, and if you win then that’s just an added bonus.  If I play the lottery, I play for the jackpot.  If I win a million dollars, I’ll take it but I know I don’t really deserve it.  If I find love and if love finds me, I’ll take it but I know I didn’t do anything to deserve it.  If you agree with me on this, you’ll probably say something supportive.  If you disagree with me, then you’ll probably say something like, “That’s just YOUR opinion and you’re trying to pass YOUR opinion as fact!”  I don’t care if you’re one or the other.  A great man once said, “Don’t believe anyone who praises you, and don’t believe anyone who criticizes you.  If you allow other people’s opinions to affect how you view yourself, you’ll never do anything.”

Since that dream I’ve spoken to Rachel a few times and I’ve realized that she’s the only girl I’ve ever met who has the potential to be better than Sarah.  For years I’ve been wishing on every star in the Southland sky for this moment to happen.  Maybe dreams can come true?

I’m kind of bummed she has a boyfriend, though.

My right arm has been hurting lately, and I know exactly why.  I have a laptop computer and I’m too lazy to get a mouse for it.  For the few hours each day that I am on the computer, my right hand hovers over my computer’s touchpad.  The constant clicking with the index finger and the motions of the middle finger have worn out my entire right arm.  I’ve tried using my left hand, and I’ve failed miserably.  No matter how hard I try, the fingers on my left hand will never master the skill of using the touchpad mouse.  Left-handed people amaze me.  Furthermore, I cannot comprehend people who can simultaneously use all four limbs.  I’m baffled by people who can drive manual transmission; I’m entranced by people who can peel bananas with their feet.   I suppose that is why drummers fascinate me.  As I’m typing this, I’m watching Paramore’s video for “Misery Business” and I can’t help but marvel as the drummer pounds away at his drums like a crazed lunatic.  As an exclusively right-handed individual, I am completely mesmerized by the fact that drummers use all four of their limbs simultaneously, with each limb doing something completely independent of the others.  I equate this talent with the ability to write with both hands simultaneously, which is probably exaggerated (and/or erroneous).  In any case, such talent probably requires full use of both hemispheres of the brain, which ultimately depresses me.  Apparently, my motor skills are confined to the neurological capacity of my left frontal lobe.

The name of Paramore’s wacky drummer is Zac Farro.  I know this because I read the liner notes to their album “All We Know is Falling”.  In this age of digital music, iTunes, and file sharing, I’ll admit that I’m part of the dying breed of people who still buys music CDs.  (I don’t have anything at all against downloading music or file sharing because I don’t believe it’s a crime to listen to music.  I don’t think anyone should have to pay to listen to music.  However, I do believe that one should pay to own a CD, and considering that I like to collect CDs as a hobby, I have no problem with paying money to expand my collection.)  I like to collect CDs because I like reading the booklets that come with them.  I like reading the lyrics to Michelle Branch’s “Everywhere” because I like trying to figure out if she is singing about her boyfriend or God.  I like reading the song credits to Colbie Caillat’s album “Coco” because I like being assured that she is a legitimate singer/songwriter.  I like flipping through the booklet for My Chemical Romance’s “The Black Parade” because I like marveling at Gerard Way’s awesome artwork.  I like wondering why the hell a ram is pictured all over the place in The Killers’ “Sam’s Town”.  I'm certain that I could find all this stuff in magazines and Wikipedia, but there’s something intangible about a CD package that makes the artist seem genuinely artistic.  It’s part of who they are.

But in any case, I like reading the acknowledgments of the artist the most.   I like reading Dr. Dre shout out to his friends.  I like reading KRS-One teach us about how we’re all wrong.  I like reading Lauryn Hill make a cheap shot to Wyclef, and I like reading 2Pac threaten to kill people.  I like reading Christina Aguilera acknowledge all her writers and producers, and I like reading Avril Lavigne not do the same.  I like reading KT Tunstall’s chicken scratch on the booklet to “Eye on the Telescope”, and although I cannot decipher her writing, I’m sure she is acknowledging wonderful people.  I like reading the hundreds of artists who thank the same God, and I like reading the few artists who thank hundreds of gods.  I like reading what these singers have to say.  I like reading what inspires them.

I wish I had my own liner notes.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a bone of talent in my body.  I am not musically inclined, and I will never release a CD on any given Tuesday.  I will never have my own liner notes.  But if I did, I suppose I would acknowledge what inspires me, and I suppose I have been doing as such for quite a while now.  I guess I could continue to write about that right now, but honestly I’ve been a little uninspired lately.  Sadly, the only thing I could write about right now is ambidexterity.  I used to be able to write about anything and everything at a lightning-fast pace, but I’m not able to anymore.  My inspiration has always been depression, anger, frustration, and dissatisfaction.  The fact that I have writer’s block has forced me to reassess what inspires me and confront a possibly new reality…

I think I like someone.