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My dreams do not make for a brighter future.

It is difficult to follow dreams when you can't remember the right ones to follow.

While most people are striving for fame and riches, or a home to own and a family to match, I am trying to figure out how to find the gentlest and oldest drug dealer in the world to bathe in a silver bathtub out in the back roads of a country town. After having escaped from the county jail, he would be far too tired to wash himself and I would be in too much debt to refuse. But at that point, I would think of him as a grandpapa and I would grab his wrinkled hand and tell him that it's all going to be okay. Then he would smile, then cough, then spit, then tell me a silly secret. Then he would introduce me to his grandson, who works in a pork rendering plant...

I am dreaming of a desert home, wasting every hour of sunshine in a baby pool filled with tequila. I don't even like to drink. But I would learn to love my vomit stains if I could get crisp in the dirt of the west. Then the mailman would come by, and I'd say, " How's it going Luke?" and he'd say, "Just fine Miss Camille, Just fine." His name isn't really Luke, but he's such a nice guy that it doesn't bother him a bit that I don't know how to pronounce his real name. I'd offer him a smoke, he'd accept, then he would talk to me about his wife's goiters, and I would nod sympathetically, pushing up my knock-off designer sunglasses whenever a nod was overly enthusiastic.

I can't begin writing a resume because I fear that most of my objective goals would not find the degree of appreciation they find in my imagination. Teaching kids sex ed in a backwash school district where they still preach the Gospel as Science is not something employers would consider as a mark of good character. Those kids would be so popular throughout high school though, it's hard not to think of it as an act of charity. I'd talk to the girls and I'd let them know who the whores are, not out of maliciousness, but so they know who to go for when they want advice. It's easier to talk about these things among your peers, I would say, so go talk to Trish about what an abortion feels like. Then I would meet the married social studies teacher for a quickie in the teacher's lounge.

I used to have a vaguely concrete idea of what my destiny could be. I thought I would be some kind of Writer. I am writing but so long as I continue to be so inexplicably catatonic, I fear I will just be this until I give up completely.

I won't give up though, because I'm too lazy to give up something this easy.


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'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

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Hope had left the gun on the table.

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