sucking blackhole

Procrastination has a luscious appeal to me. I’m supposed to whip something up about Bamboo and Mishka Adams for my other job. But here I am, writing this stupid post instead. Wasting what little time I have is something I’m adept at. It’s sheer joy. It’s bliss. Like marinating your dendrites in vodka before a major exam.

I feel I have the right to laze around because this morning, I had a dream. And I don’t usually dream. Dreams are as ridiculously remote to me as those million-dollar vintage items being auctioned off on eBay. So it’s either my body is in dire need of defragmentation or the universe is about to implode and it’s telling me to sort out my fucked up existence before it sends my ass whirling into some hungry blackhole that will suck me in like a blowjob. Either way, the best thing to do is to bum around. Relax. Chill out. Take off your shoes and philosophize about your wiggling toes. That’s the way to go when dreams suddenly appear like warts in your sleep.

Anyhow, about my dream. This is how I remember it, more or less:

I am in a darkened drawing room with badly upholstered couches and shoddy armchairs (funny, it reminds me of Cez’s living room in Rosario). I am taking a foreign language class with a handful of classmates slouched on the sofa. Suddenly, the sliding door opens and in comes a friend (who is now in the States) from Lingua Franca. She’s dressed in an elegant, sexy red gown with a sprinkling of red sequins or red swarowski diamonds. I am surprised to find her in Manila. She pulls me out of the room and puts her arms around me. Then she kisses me on the mouth. I notice the smudged rouge on her lips. I wipe it with my right hand. Then we kiss again, this time, I initiate it, but without tongue acrobatics, just moist lips and saliva and smeared lipstick.

And then I wake up.

Ok, that’s just it. I have no psychological babble, sexual or otherwise, to go with that. Freud can fuck Jung for all I care. Dreams don’t mean much to me, not unless they are of the wet variety. If that’s the case, then bring it on every night. I won’t mind. The sheets can always be laundered afterwards.

So why am I blogging about this dream if it means nothing to me? I’m wasting my time, remember? What better way to spend those precious minutes than by rambling on about some aborted, potentially erotic dream. But just the same, I did inform the girl about it. I left a message in her Yahoo Messenger, telling her that we just kissed in my dream. For all I know, the universe has already sent her to some fellatio-obsessed blackhole or something.

A sucking blackhole. I like that. I should dream about it next time. I wonder if it swallows.