Monday, February 6, 2012
Have you ever had a dream that made you jump out of bed and say, “What the Fuck?” Or as my friend Andie would say, “Oh my Gawd!” And I’m not talking about a “Someone stole my candy bar” kinda dream. Don’t mess with a fat girl and her shugga. Even in my sleep I will take you out. Typically, my dreams involve 1 of 2 things…Brad Pitt or Fried Chicken. Sometimes these two dreams morph into one super dream. Me and Brad sharin a bucket a fried chicken. Greasy. Yummy. Scandalous. I know that bitch Angelina aint eatin no fried chicken. She always looks hungry. So unattractive Angie. So unattractive. Anyway, so that would be an average trip down REMory lane for this SIF. One would think I would dream about sex since my current love interest involves a plastic rabbit that bites. No one likes a biter. There wasn’t a warning on the box, fyi. Why dream about sex when you can eat fried chicken with Brad Pitt? Duh. An orgasm is an orgasm. So mine is a little greasier than most. Don’t be judgie. What would make me jump out of bed screaming bloody murder….why an orgasm at the grocery store of course!
I can’t make this shit up. I’d like you to think I have this super vivid imagination that allows for endless material. However, my life is too vivid in and of itself to go out creating more fucked up shit. I’m kind of a big deal like that. You’ll recall “This can’t be my life” allows for many layers of fuckedupedness. Yes Mother. I am saying fuck a lot. I try and get all my fucking out of the way on days that end in “Y.” In any event, I am about to reveal a dream that will change your opinion of me forever. I can’t be sure that’s a bad thing. I will preface this revelation with the following public service reminder…we can’t control our dreams. That’s why no one’s judging you for sticking the cucumber up your ass and actually liking it. You were helpless to defend yourself. The part where you used it in your tossed salad…now that’s just sick. But you dreamt it. No control over your dreams. If shitty cucumbers turn you on, have at it. Just remind me not to accept your dinner invitation.
I’m stalling. Ok. Here goes. Well…let me first say I don’t remember what I ate for dinner that night and I don’t know where I was in my monthly cycle. I wish I had something like that to grab on to. Or a nice juicy wein, as it were. I’m getting sidetracked again. I can only say I went to bed as I always do. Naked and loaded down with just enough drugs to make sure I slept well and rose on time. It’s quite a science. It’s getting tougher since they started carding for Benadryl. I swear I’m not mixing up crack. Just making sure my ass goes to sleep. In light of some recent developments pertaining to the demise of my marriage, I should be able to cut back on at least 12 to 14 pills a night. Maybe. I’m currently going to bed humming “All my exes live in Texas.” I only have 1 and he is in fact in Texas. I hate country music. However, if the shoe fits…be thankful it’s at least 5 states away. The upside…he didn’t kill me before he left. I was sure that was eminent. The smell of gun cleaner waffled through our home from the time I announced it was over until he left the state. For a while I thought I got a bad lot of Airwick room fresheners. Then I realized they don’t make a “time to kill your wife” scent. Scary. Good thing he used my bread pan to hold the cleaner. “SIF unravels plot on her life after discovering missing bread pan being used as gun cleaning agent.” Clearly the only way I would ever unravel a death plot against my life. It would have to involve food. How did I get off track again? Can’t be sure.
So I dreamed I was having an orgasm in front of Wegman’s. In my car. In the parking lot. Watching people walk in and out. For those who don’t know what Wegman’s is…I’m sorry to reveal it’s a grocery store. A very nice grocery store. With good kind employees. Great service. Good food. And freaks in the parking lot as it were. Why? Why would I be rubbin one out in the parking lot of Wegman’s? Why? We don’t even have Wegman’s in NC. Not that it really matters. As a fatty, I’ve been known to travel for good food. I could see if I was masturbating over the donuts. That’s perfectly acceptable. Especially the ones with sprinkles. I may get 2 out of that. But the parking lot? Watching people walk in and out. Maybe it was the in and out part. I don’t have specifics. Such as, was the rabbit involved? Was I flying solo? Was some creepy guy waiting for his wife in the next car watching me? I don’t know. I just know it was good, I got busted and drove off in a hurry. I wish I could tell you I woke up, grabbed a shower and asked the good Lord for forgiveness. That would be a lie. I was still asleep. Speeding out of the parking lot. I’m sure I wasn’t paying attention to the arrows. Sex felons tend to ignore things like that. I feared my picture would appear in Wegman’s everywhere. “Wanted. Fat Sex offender. Known to spontaneously rub one out. Anywhere.” I would bring scandal to fatties everywhere. Good thing I drive fast…
In fact, I drove so fast…the next part of my dream almost makes less sense than the first. As I sped out of the Wegmans parking lot running from the sex police/shopping cart retrieval boy, I almost missed one of this country’s greatest landmarks. Long John Silver’s. They are a rare sight these days. I’ve been known to drive miles out of my way to enjoy some crunchies. Even though you actually have to ask for them now. SO barbaric. Anyway, I was driving down this big hill and over my right shoulder I saw the LJS. Yes, I drive looking over my right shoulder. Good damn thing I did. Mighta missed the Silver. Anyway, I did what any civilized human would do upon seeing such a historic treasure….SLAMMED ON THE DAMN BRAKES! I vividly recall pumping the brakes like I was gettin paid to do so! Yeah…you’ll recall this is a dream. A dream where I just got chased out of the grocery store parking lot for perv like behavior. So what do you suppose happened next? The unthinkable. No brakes. No mother freakin brakes! What the hell kind of dream is this?! I pumped and pumped. Nothing. Down the hill I went… crunchies fading in the distance. It’s a wonder I didn’t have a massive heart attack and die in my sleep. Nope. Instead I had to wake up AND remember every detail of this nightmare. And share it with you. I’m an artist. Anything for my public.
What does this say about me? My husband should have shot me whilst he had the chance! I am a meat beatin Long John Silver’s addict. I don’t think there’s currently a support group for this crowd. By crowd I mean me. I doubt anyone but me would come forward. “Hello my name is SIF. I like to masturbate in the grocery store parking lot and I have an inappropriate relationship with a man named Silver and his crunchies.” Nope. Not another one out there. I need one of those dream people to tell me what it all means. Yeah, no I don’t. Any idiot could decipher this one. I need to get laid immediately if not sooner and I’d prefer the evening to include my favorite fine dining fast food establishment. Simple as that.
Do you suppose I could write a country song that incorporates “All my exes live in Texas,” public masturbation and Long John Silver’s? I’m gonna get to work on that. Grammy award winning song writer, fat and freak nasty? Well fuck! Yes Mother, that last fuck was for you. Have fun in Wegmans. I’ll be in the car.