posted on Nov, 17 2008 @ 04:22 AM
I wrote down this dream and twisted it a lot because I have fun writing, because writing is like air to me. This does not reflect on my writing
skills, I only post things on the internet that I perceive as being crappy. I’d explain, but I’m not sure you’d “get it”, and perhaps
explanations will only confuse you further.
Sharpie, the glow stick alien
What can I tell you? How can I type it? I can’t describe him in any other way. He was an alien who looked like a glow stick; all neon green
and yellow like he belonged around a rave girl’s neck, the kind of girl who liquefies ecstasy on her tongue and gyrates on a packed dance floor with
strangers. She tells you what frottage means when you don’t ask, and kisses you like she’s never tasted something sweeter.
Wait, I’m getting side tracked.
Where was I?
Oh yeah, so this alien, he was a he and he was like a glow stick. Until he wasn’t, until he morphed into something I could look at with out
squinting. Then he was a young man, with light mocha skin and ivory colored hair, and a scrawny frame. And I asked him, “What-what are you doing in
my room?”
“I’m just here,” he told me, his voice reaching me like a rock being thrown and lightly tapping my ear.
“Just here?” I scoffed. “You don’t belong in my room.”
“I was left here so I do,” he told me.
“You aren’t like a post-pubescent super man right? I don’t have to raise you and help you become a Journalist?”
“No.”
“Good, in the real world when you remove your glasses you don’t look totally different, and people realize you’re the same person, even if your
hair is faintly different and you’re wearing a leotard.”
“What?”
“Can I sleep now?” I whined.
He turned away from me; I acknowledged his bareness and covered my eyes. “Here,” I removed a robe I couldn’t remember putting on and handed it
to him.
He faced me again and took the fuzzy, blue housecoat.
“Don’t be nude,” I dictated and he nodded.
“I need a name,” he pouted. “I’m nameless.”
“I’ll call you Sharpie,” I named him, thinking of my Sharpie highlighter and his previous neon color.
“I need Starbucks,” he whispered even more pathetically.
“You have Starbucks in space?” I gasped.
“Yes,” he sniffed, nodding his head robotically. “I need a tall coffee.”
“My God,” I shivered, “they are everywhere.”
“Please,” he whimpered, falling to his knees. “I need it.”
“Coffee is liquid crack for some people,” I spoke with certainty. “You seem like one of those people. Maybe it’s best to quit cold turkey. I
could get you some orange juice.”
He grimaced up at me like I was being a mean mommy.
“Fine,” I allowed through clenched teeth. “If I see you jittering in the streets asking for change some day you remember I warned you about your
gateway drug.”
The alien got his coffee; I went to bed. He was gone when I woke up. After that encounter I avoided glow sticks, threw out my highlighters, and went
to a shrink. I’m heavily medicated like the rest of the world now.
[edit on 17-11-2008 by rapinbatsisaltherage]