Thursday, January 26, 2023


Sometimes, because of the effects of bloodpressure pills, there are strange intense dreams. Often they involve food and places I've been. I've always had somewhat odd dreams -- no, none of them have ever come true -- but in the past four years they've more often been exceptional. The things that go bump in the night are in my head.

And given that often my lower extremities hurt (see aforementioned blood pressure meds) it is wondrous that to the best of my recollection none of the dreams have involved running.

In real life I don't like to run -- it's undignified -- how awful it would be if I did so while asleep?

No, I do not run for the bus. There will always be another one, and if you keep an eye on the time there will be scant reason to hurry. It is better to show up early rather than late.

Missing the bus after work is nightmarish, because quite frankly I tolerate Marin till the end of my shift, and after that I loathe and despise the place utterly. Hottubistan is the festering tumour on the diseased rump of bourgeois superficiality, it's denizens mostly shiftless pretendeurs and sell-outs. Feh. Urgh. And gadzooks.
Drug-addled wankers.

I do not dream about Marin.
If I did, I'd wake up worried that there was someone behind me. A corpse come to life, or bigfoot's highschool delinquent little brother. Something ghastly that reeked of Aramis and new car. And very likely marijuana, because that is the dominant smell on the Golden Gate Transit buses, those suburbanites can't do without it, and huff it at the drop of a hat.
Because it's "therepeutic".

It accounts for why so many of them are weak-moralled kankers.

Marin is the pit of complete mediocrity.

A compost heap.

Very few of my memories of time spent in Marin involve good food. None running.
Running would be a very bad memory and a horrible dream.
In that sense at least Marin is okay.
Not good, but okay.

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