Dream Journal

There was a big party. I was with Rebecca and this guy and someone else. We ended up on the roof, watching people. I think it was a night dream, but it started out really nice. I went around doing good deeds. I helped some girl out of some sort of trouble.

Then I met this friendly Asian boy who was discouraged about sex, saying he’d never get laid. I sorta comforted him. He got out this toy: a ball with a long string and a weight — you’d throw the ball then whip the weight behind it in another direction for cool effects. He said he wanted us to play with it. I went down some stairs to get some distance and when I looked back up he was gone. He’d thrown himself over the edge of the roof to die. I ran to the edge and looked down. He’d landed head first on the concrete. His head was bashed in, and there was this white foamy liquid on the concrete all around it. I ran to the party and told someone to call an ambulance. Then I realized the kid was running behind me saying “Touch my head! Feel it!” I refused. He’d survived, and so he did it again and again, and each time it was like the tragedy was new. The next time, his head was a crushed up carton that leaked ice cream. I got more and more distanced from the drama. The kid somehow got an ugly girlfriend and he became a fat white ugly punk teen and he just kept committing suicide.

I left with a friend and took him to the museum where I’d sometimes hang out in the basement. As I was unlocking the big front door, my friend pulled out B&W photos of Hitler, Anne Frank’s writing, and Nazi Germany. He said “You know what else started in a museum basement?! Do you know?!”

How creepy.