the owner cited everything i've ever done wrong in my life and i was sorely ashamed. i felt as if i was standing before G-d. who knows, maybe i was.
when he was done berating me, i turned behind me. todd and all my friends where there. i told them exactly how i wanted everything to be carried out quickly.
edit this so only clean, complete thoughts are in it. take out all the petty shit. publish it.
assemble a team of writers to edit and finish more and more curious. heather and emily head it.
give my art book to madison.
give my photos to mom.
all my clothes and everything else go to todd.
i want a birthday for a funeral. cake and ice cream and party favors.
and some other things. the minute i was finished telling them what i wanted, they were gone. i turned back to the owner of the store and said every meaningful thing i've ever written in my life out loud.
I am not my vocal cords, but i am my voice.
then, i pulled out a gun, put it to my head, and pulled the trigger. i have no. fucking. clue. why i dreamed this.
surprisingly, it wasn't all that of a bad dream. it wasn't intense or sad or angry. it was just an objective documentary. i woke up curious and interested, though slightly shaken. i always die in my dreams.
i don't even know if i can blame this one on lexapro or not.