A dream I'd like to share....

Banana and Kuno and I were in Mexico because it was my birthday.

It was real rowdy like it was during the Carnavale festivities but I can't quite remember for sure. But wait a minute...Carnavale is in Fenruary and my birthday is in June....I suppose it could have been Saint John the Baptist Day...but that just doesn't sound as cool. Alright, public notice, my birthday has now changed to February. All I know is that there were a plethora of drunks and crazies congregating on the dirt streets and the air was filled with dust and insanity.

I don't even remember the events that led up to us deciding to come to Mexico. One moment I'm at home in Texas trying to get some reading done, the next I'm sitting at a raggedy old wooden bench with my two good friends being solicited by prostitutes and drenching ourselves in tequila. My fingers were sticky with lime.

We were drinking alot and I felt like I wasn't feeling any of the effects of it though. How sad...what's up with that. I was going to be upset if I made this trek all the way out here and I don't even get fucked up.

But Banana and Kuno were sure having a good time. They were laughing and conjoling like a bunch of crows in a corn field. Then some of our buddies arrived. Hey how'd they know we were gonna be here? That's a big coincidence.

Killer, Froggie and two other guys I hadn't met before (or had I?) arrived. I gave each one a big hug and a kiss on the cheek and since Killer was about 7'1 and weighed nearly 300 lbs, he hugged me, tossed me in the air and threw me over his shoulder until my head was spinning.

We settled down and Banana came up behind me, told me I was sexy and threw up all over me. But it was ok, I wasn't going to cry over projectile vomit. It would make a good story one day.

Then all of a sudden there were a group of parapalegics who over took the streets and wanted to sit at our wooden table (with one broken leg being propped up by a tequila bottle--how'd they do that--only in dreams I guess) And who's gonna say no to a parapalegic, eh? Maybe Hitler...or Martha Stewart, I guess.

But I was upset. A black guy with chocolate smooth skin had rolled his wheelchair up to our spot and was griping for a cerveza when I go up to him, lean over the table and say, "You think you're tough shit don't you....asshole."

I walk away not knowing why I did that but a little voice in the back of my head was calling me a cunt. Or maybe it was the black parapalegic calling me a cunt. It's alright, I can deal with that especially since I'm already a self proclaimed bitch. I think people can call themselves worse things--like a pharmacist, for example. Yeesh, gives me the heebie-jeebies.