June 17 Kim Jong Illz

Charlie has a dream. Like me, he doesn’t dream often. Maybe it’d be more fitting to say we don’t remember our dreams that often, cause there’s probably always something flicking around behind our eyes at night. After hearing Charlie’s dream, I’m disappointed he doesn’t remember his dreams more often. Maybe I need to sit by his head and send more wayward texts. SO:

Kim Jong Il is hosting the World Cup. The stands are packed and filled with enough fervor to make KJI beam. Rockets and confetti flare as representatives from each participating country start running around the field. KJI announces that a few lucky spectators from the crowd will be hand chosen by him to join the futbol heroes circling the pitch. So of course, Kim Jong Il points directly at James, and says something like “You are Chosen!” James of course, adverse to any sort of physical activity, (and probably confused what he’s even doing at the World Cup), replies with doe-y, dilated eyes “Thanks, but no Thanks.”

Kim Jong Il is not one to be told NO. And so he reaches out WITH HIS MIND, pushing into James’ head to will him onto the field and do KJI’s bidding. James’ mind does not put up a fight. Instead, it welcomes anyone that wants to come and party with it. KJI is quickly horrified by the traumatic incoherence storming about in James’ head. The crowd doesn’t understand why KJI is wailing in pain, beat red, down on his knees, and grabbing his temples as he stares at James. James stares right back with the disinterest of a cow.

And then Charlie unfortunately wakes up. I can’t tell if I’m laughing at Charlie’s dream just because it’s so amazing, or because I’m imaging the entire thing played out by puppets.

And with that running through my head, I step out for a coffee. I know that they do things different here, but all I was hoping to find was a nice little café where people were lounging about, enjoying their beverages, talking to other human beings, reading a book or paper, or working on a laptop. Make the coffee however culture dictates, but that type of atmosphere sounds like it should exist universally. And maybe it does. But every café I found was solely occupied by individual Germen men, each stoically sitting with espressos, their legs crossed as they all clutched on to cigarettes and intently stared glassy-eyed eyed off in some unfocused direction. What are you trying to do there buddy, burn a hole in the wall across the street with your brain lasers?

My café excursion is a bit of a failure. And so I return home. Mrs. Dalloway or Plants vs. Zombies? The correct choice looks quite clear in writing, and my brain doesn’t even seem to consider this a question, and yet, somehow I keep making the wrong choice.