윤

I was with a group of young Koreans, might as well have been a boy band, but as soon as we got off the elevator, we were beset by equally attractive K-pop starlets who split up my entourage, taking each member behind a different door—except for myself, of course. If you’re wondering when I’ll stop fitting into these exciting scenarios, I think the plummeting testosterone has long since had that effect even on my subconscious… what good will San Junipero be to the impotent? So it was up to me to retrieve everyone from these sinister sirens: I intruded upon the first of them about to consummate the seduction, and her beautiful face became an animal’s, grotesque elephantine features under the same hair. Back together, we sought an exit through the single Black-walled room that wasn’t equipped with only a White mattress like all the others and instead had several exits. Unlike my usual predicaments, however, this time I wasn’t alone with no recourse but to be frustrated by one path nowhere after another, and could direct my team to try them simultaneously, Alice in Borderland-style.

Even more outrageous is that Miller not only probably relished being under that mask, but he’s still on their payroll. Though no way for these lines.

Despite being tired as fuck from another pathetic run earlier in the evening and unable to sleep I think, from the Dew I drank with the wholly unscientific purpose of stimulating my recovery, I woke up an hour and a half before my first meeting after a dream that a tall Black woman and skinny teenager with two handguns had home-invaded us. They weren’t particularly cautious criminals, unmasked and allowing us to move about to bring them their spoils while the former danced and her partner sat with his back to us. There were lamps and things we don’t own that I might’ve taken to his head, but would it have been enough to incapacitate him, or could I take the chance he hadn’t transferred his weapons to her without my knowledge? I continued to consider the possibilities during my transition, when even my strength and will didn’t seem sufficient to go at him with an easily-obtained knife from the kitchen.

Later that evening I’d read the synopsis of Bob Odenkirk’s new film—or did I re-read it, and subconsciously schedule my dream as a preview or reminder?

Not really sure if I can maintain any thematic consistency or segue the least bit logically this time around, but let’s see where this takes us: I had befriended a Korean teenager but somehow ended up with his Samsung-ish cellphone, which was a plot point towards the end of this series, wasn’t it, where the younger detective saves his partner from incrimination by intercepting a text message meant to lure him to the scene of an assassination. (There were some good moments, mostly early on, but I don’t think the conspiracy warranted that many episodes, much less the effort to keep it from the forgiving public.)

I sought him out to return it, but crowds began forming and a mountain of their backpacks blocked my passage in one direction. Seems his countrymen had booked Coyote Creek for an interscholastic sporting event and even set up seating along one of its walls. With all the children around, I gathered up a few of them and arranged to have them taken to a Lakers game or another local attraction by limo. The driver’s assistant requested their ages, which ranged from 5 to some in their teens, but once I got inside to confirm, the car drove off without the guest of honor, so he called up front and asked to circle back.

Frustrating outcome, as usual, but wholesome content, not like before my 1-7 break between watching the penultimate 15회 on the box and the finale live, where I was part of a resistance formed against the department management bent on reducing our numbers. I relayed our latest predicament to former co-worker Ailee as we plotted together to strengthen our resolve. The enemy crashed the secret gathering and my cohorts scattered while I deliberately turned my back to them to bear the brunt of their attention; I could see they were right behind me in my friend’s eyes. Bystanders noped any association with me by backing away, including classic Larry Trainor and his partner, a headless man in a flight uniform.

Update: Forgot to mention that when I was wading through all those students in the flood channel, I was explicitly dressed in my Uniqlo thermals, these wonderfully thick Costco socks and never any footwear, carrying my comforter as I’d expect from the new tenants. No one seemed to take notice of me.

Some time ago I thought I’d conceive work-set stories that were more to my liking than the weekly hijinx with poor management—that is, more likely to take my mind off the brutal reality of it, like identifying a co-worker as a JAV actress, suspecting another of fighting crime at night or being kidnapped and experimented on by aliens for years during a lunch break. Or from even further back, taking time off for one job-seeking adventure after another.This morning I had a dream I wandered into an office building exploring each room as I would in a FPS and finding all of the empty ones in a state of squalor, but still well-equipped enough for me to hide among them in a maintenance role. On the ground floor I came across a garage of company cars, among them a red 60’s Mustang coupe I would eventually make my escape, but not before flashing back to some of the more memorable moments from my Kramer-like tenure.

IT staff wore red polos, and once while attempting to resolve an issue for an employee named Kazuto (a woman, I was surprised to learn), the real team responded to her original request, so I had to disappear downstairs to a connected subway line and remove the stolen uniform to avoid their pursuit.

Update: I might have intentionally used the videogame analogy because The Stanley Parable had been sitting on my Desktop (behind interminable updates from the Epic Games Store, who can blame me) for so long without even a single walkthrough, and while the narrative interplay lives up to its reputation, it’s the desperate search for some sense of fulfillment—take that as you will—that reminds me how disappointing my dreams often are. Not to mention the contrived frustration behind the experience, corridors or doors that go nowhere, episodes that end abruptly and if you do find someone, you’re left to convince yourself that the fantasy is realer than the medium is capable of rendering.

Stacy was super-intelligent, but this intelligence sometimes proved to be a curse. He was bored with school but managed to finish high school, with his share of troubles along the way. After high school, he went to work as a tool and die maker at his father’s company Rabco. He was very good at his job but being the boss’s son came with its own set of issues.

He also was a lifelong fan of punk rock, Rush Limbaugh, MST3K, Weird Al and The Rocky Horror Picture Show. He became an “expert” in all of these. Stacy dealt with anxiety his whole life, and often self-medicated with alcohol and drugs.

Stacy never married nor had children but did have several longtime girlfriends.

Stacy lived at home in his parents’ house until his father’s sudden death in 1990. He was unprepared to live on his own and the drug and alcohol use worsened. He was arrested in 2000 on a charge of manufacturing methamphetamine. Even though it was his first arrest, mandatory minimum sentencing laws in place at the time put him in prison for 10 years.

While the minimum-security prison was for the most part terrible for him, he did do something there that became one of his happiest memories. He formed a punk rock band called The Criminals with several other inmates.

After prison, the anxiety got the best of him again and once again alcohol use became an issue. He really tried but it was difficult to hold a job. He was homeless for a period and was hospitalized after a brutal assault and robbery. It was then he found the Restart program, thru which he received housing and opportunities for job training. He got a job he really liked at Sprint Center on the night shift cleaning up after events. During the day, he went to training to get his CDL to drive big trucks, something he had always wanted to do. He developed relationships within Restart, including special friend Brandy Redell. Life was on the right track for him until 2016 when the esophageal cancer diagnosis first hit.

A 63-year-old cancer patient in Kansas City named Stacy Blatt told the Times that he gave $500 to the [Trump] campaign in September, despite living on less than $1,000 a month, and was completely blindsided by what followed.

“That single contribution — federal records show it was his first ever — quickly multiplied,” the report stated. “Another $500 was withdrawn the next day, then $500 the next week and every week through mid-October, without his knowledge — until Mr. Blatt’s bank account had been depleted and frozen.”

He was forced to seek help from his brother after his utility and rent checks bounced and he learned his account had been drained of $3,000 in under 30 days.