I have red hair, one of my best friends is named “Hook,” and I have been known to wear tights. They call them “meggings” these days. The male version of leggings. That is how we do things today. Make up a new word to make anything and everything acceptable. Speaking of anything and everything, I feel that I can “fly” at pretty much everything but haven’t taken flight at anything. So much promise, so much potential! Why I am Peter Pan, I am! Even my “rap career” became respectable towards the end. I’m not certain that I even like rap music. It was just something that I could do. Albeit a parody of sorts, I tried my hand at country music just as well. People seemed to enjoy it. Not great; not bad. I’m not trying to put myself over at all; it is more to emphasize a point that I think is valid. Almost everything I pick up; I can pick up with competence. You know, I believe the purpose of meggings would be for one to show off their “manhood,” but it does not have that effect for me. A correction needs to be made. Little Peter Pan, I am!
What is promise or potential when you are thirty? It’s cringe; it’s a joke, really. No confident woman wants to hear a thirty-year-old talk about their hopes and dreams. That’s a dry dream. Nobody likes dry dreams. Well, this entry is the Mojave Desert. All that I am is promise and potential, hopes and dreams. Mark Twain wrote, “Some of the worst things in my life never even happened.” A comforting and truthful quote, that, as all my catastrophizing never comes to fruition. It all happened in my head, not in reality. In Neverland. I’ll do you one better, however, Mr. Twain. Most of the best things in my life never even happened. They also took place in my mind when my thoughts flew me away to Neverland. Want to know some of the magical events that occurred? I scored a hat-trick against the archrival hockey team. The third goal an overtime winner. I proposed to who I thought was the love of my life at Big Sur. We went to Fiji for our honeymoon. Got one of those “huts” that lie above the water. I just bought a house in Neverland, TN. The outside leaves much to be desired, but that is by design to remind me to never judge a book by its cover. However, the inside is such a magical place! Just like Neverland! There is art all along the walls – each piece with a special meaning to me. The walls are something like a serene green, the shades or drapes have the design of trees and waterfalls, and the floors are hardwood or a chocolate brown rug. Oh, the inside of that house in Neverland – it brings the beauty of Opal Creek right to your living room. Sigh. Sorry to alarm you with that loud bang. I’ve slammed “Word Up” magazine into the trash. For this was all a dream.
Here is an excerpt from Gamblers Anonymous literature: “Pathetically, however, there never seems to be a big enough winning to make even the smallest dream come true. When compulsive gamblers succeed, they gamble to dream still greater dreams.” Oh, forgive me. My name is Josh, and I am a compulsive gambler. Of course, I am a gambler! Gambling in and of itself is a dream. Any wager, whether it be $5 or $500 (sidebar: when did kids start thinking it was okay to place the dollar sign after the number?), means the dream is not yet dead, and the wonderful part about that dream is that you do not have to work for it at all! If that sounds embarrassing, which it probably does, that’s because it is. The trap of gambling is that you (me) are deluded into thinking that winning is reality, but it is not. Winning keeps you in Neverland. I’m afraid that the only way to escape the dreamworld of Neverland is not only to lose – but to lose badly. Gamblers do not risk money. Well, they do, but not exactly. What we gamblers risk is far greater than money. We don’t care about money at all. That’s why you’ll see us blow winnings as if they are bubble gum, only to have the bubble popped a moment later. A “win” only means another dream. No, we gamblers risk our dreams at first, and if it gets bad enough, eventually, we risk ourselves. The greatest risk of all. I’ve considered that it is possible that I have tackled the wrong addiction. Maybe. Who knows? Is this the reason why it has been relatively easy not to drink? Ironically, that is not a risk that I am willing to take. In Centerville, TN, where I live, there are train tracks all over the city, but in three years, I have yet to see a train. Recently, I found out that is because the train comes in every four years. Lay on the train tracks if you wish, Josh. One day, whether it is four days from now, four months from now, or four years from now, I will be run over. I’ll keep doing what I’m doing.
Miss Paula’s latest piece, “Naughty Turn Right,” had my wheels spinning. She is a much better writer than I. It’s almost frustrating, but I am so fortunate that she came aboard. Anyway, her piece prompted a yard sale of ideas that I quickly drafted up and sent her way. Normally, these rough drafts stay in the can for eternity, but I sent this one to her because somehow, within this short period of knowing her, I trust her and value her opinion. “There are a lot of overcompensating narratives written here,” said Miss Paula. In particular, she did not like the usage of the word “brainwashed.” I had made a joke that said something like in order for a woman to be attracted to me, they had to be tricked. Otherwise, how could they be? Twas a joke, but she is right. Two things can be true at once. What does this have to do with your dream world, you ask? There is a certain change of character that accompanies the improvement of the external circumstances of your life. Well, when I was twenty-four years old, I was far from a needed change of character and far from any desired external circumstance. What am I to do other than attempt to speak or write that character into existence? In other words, I sold a dream. A dream that a change of character will one day manifest itself. Fine dream at twenty-four; a nightmare trying to sell it at thirty. Wendy is gone, and she is never coming back. How could I blame her? She lived the nightmare.
Quit dreaming, you might say. I think not. Some dreams have yet to be swallowed by the crocodile of time. Dreams like the content of #wysbdotme being transferred into a book and flying off the shelves. Hopefully, Miss Paula will throw me a bone and let a few of my pieces be in the book. Dreams like selling WYSB journals or storybooks for people to write themselves. These dreams have a certain plausibility to them. So, no, I won’t stop dreaming. “No fantasy has turned reality by more dream,” I wrote. Do as I say, not as I do. That’s the funny thing about these, isn’t it? Yes, I am writing to you, but I am writing to myself. The dream is still alive, but I must live. Oh, to live. That would be an awfully big adventure..
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