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First, some domestic scene-setting: Tony had plastic surgery to resemble キムタク and I was serving oranges that grew increasingly unlike ones I’d pick at the grocer, the last so much larger and hideous it had to be a saggy grapefruit. A cabbage in the fridge had a purple streak in the center that also indicated its past-best state. Then I was part of an outdoor procession returning home from a protest gathering and a young woman walking beside me looked dejected, so I took hold of her hand, which seemed to pick up her spirits. This platonic gesture caught the eye of my boyfriend, former co-worker Fred (to whom I apologize, my field isn’t what it used to be), whom I pointed out and neither of them was pleased. When we reached the tall carved double doors of the place I shared with him, I bid farewell to her and she turned my way with a Ruth Wilson smile under her hood, which all but sealed my fate with my current relationship. We retreated to our indoor pool with a third man, who joined us in a game where I threw a football at a target at the other end, but my partner remained distant. The living room hid the water under a retracting floor like the one at the host’s in The Party, and as well as we were doing, I knew it was time to divvy it all up.

Cursory keyword search tells me I may not have mentioned it yet, though dreams like this happen often enough that my recollections of them ought to convey the real emotional or intellectual impact from such self-inflicted scenarios. (I shall never forget one where I met 할머니 years after her passing and was overcome with sorrow that we didn’t have more time together, feeling it even after I woke.) But jealousy is for more passionate, primitive minds—I recall a recent opportunity to experience it when the wife took a younger lover, which left me nonplussed—and my simulation only produced resentment, a reminder of immature wardens.

Another common disability I face in dreams is finding myself bereft of even the most basic of driving skills, a simple turn requiring power-assisted Herculean strength, the car speeding or veering out of control on eerie traffic-free freeways, and spacious lanes closing in on hundreds of dollars in deductible cosmetic damage, as it was last night, where I struggled to pull the Xterra’s yellow mirrors away from the concrete walls of a parking garage incline.

After that momentary predicament, I was on my feet but they were frozen with the rest of my body as I was approached by two back-lit figures from whose outlines I could make out were from Planet X, but they reminded me more of the aliens who beset the boys in one of the Gamera movies, squeaky voices and all.

I lie on my side but unlike Akio above I wasn’t fortunate enough to escape the encounter with only a shaved head (which frankly I’d thank them for, as of late), but a sore rectum—there was a loud banging on the door, which woke me to check the app if the camera caught anything, but it was probably just the boy in his adjoining room—might the psychosomatic pain, too, have had a more immediate source, a test of my receptivity to a different kind of pleasure?

One thing I look back at FFXI and can forgive the requisite time sink for was the joy relief when a placeholder would finally give way to the Notorious Monster (my best memories are camping them on the clock, even when the rare visitor to my cubicle would send my USB-adaptered PS2 controller fumbling; the worst, of course, dealing with in-game competition), and I think I relived some of the feeling with shiny hunting in Let’s Go, Eevee! Only though because they’d spawn on-screen and not the traditional reveal after the encounter, which come on, is a Japanese gameplay relic that resists obsolescence like fax machines and ちかん.

You can’t tell from the clip, but I had only a few more seconds until dawn when these night-time spawns would vanish, so saving sightings like this is a godsend. The open world mechanic does require more travel, and tasks to complete the ‘Dex (so much for PoGo transfers) for the charm is a daunting proposition for all but the most dedicated players; haven’t thon’d like this for a while, have I?

I refuse the inevitability of contracting a virus whose spread is aided by selfish unmasked anti-vaxxer pricks and almost worse, people who know better but have accepted it, because they’re “tired.” Like those endless videogames of yore, there’s no tiring in the fight against intruder organisms.
And because I probably won’t retain any details about new dreams while I’m still holding onto this one’s, best.client.ever Wing was at odds with her management and while she argued with them behind a glass-doored meeting room, asked me to pick up her drycleaning, which consisted of a branded jacket and was marked on the tag “Very expensive.” She severed her ties and emerged, dressed in a long frilly coat and high boots, with curls like Japanese ne’er-do-wells from the 90’s. I can’t quite place the look—maybe it was one of the ガングロ-type girls the main character saves in オヤジぃ。—but it attracted immediate suitors whom I had to fend off before she got into my car, though I had no idea where to take her in DC.

I was reunited with old co-worker Laura Armijo, maybe because at the time she lived in Lakewood, where we went this weekend to cash in our Bed Bath & Beyond gift cards before they become worthless, and a roomful of Mark Malinski clones, all armed with automatic weapons, waiting for a signal to start blasting away at each other. Apparently we had the ability to restore our consciousnesses into new bodies, so death was nothing to fear, though I concentrated a few more times as if to upload the latest backup, just in case. All I had to make the best of it was to take her gun and give it a go, but before the activity began I succumbed to my doubts and backed out. I left the arena and took a seat at a student’s desk and played a holographic game on the tabletop with my hand, but Shining Knight whose presence I otherwise took entirely for granted approached and startled me by stabbing me in the gut, smirking as he retreated. For this I gave up sexy Wing?

Where else would I turn to for my surrealism fix now that 구경이 has ended, most likely for good? There are more contemporary options, of course, but leave it to me to go back twenty years to a pre-Hallyu time before the Japanese community surrendered the LA OTA market. (I make no claim that developments in this petite niche represent any cultural significance whatsoever; it just so happened to intersect with my many small circles of attention when Sunday nights I began switching channels to 내 이름은 김삼순 and 환상의 커플.) Lynch certainly would’ve made short work of the audio, the episodic format is more in keeping with a cheaper ongoing series than the superior longer-form arc that Koreans sometimes manage without drawing out too much—i.e., I didn’t remember a single one of these stories—and man, was Koo as slick and smooth as its star’s perfect complexion, but I really enjoyed the distractions in the background during the interplay between the two leads and wonder if the later reunions established that one was a figment of the other’s imagination? Pity they played up 美人マジシャン Yukie Nakama’s 貧乳 but not her gorgeous profile:

A legitimate phenomenon back in 2016, I doubt we’ll see another one like it again where a thousand people moved like zombies along the dark Long Beach shore upon a Lapras sighting, but new technology debuted that greatly enhanced the AR experience and the line to enter a tournament taking place inside a huge brightly-lit convention center was long, and when I reached the front, I was paired with a young Asian woman with short hair and tight black jeans. We didn’t even have our own Pokémon yet, which was probably for the best, since those on most the other teams were being demolished by headstarters throwing down powerhouses like Mewtwo, who’d appear behind the players and transform into an unrecognizable weapon-laden form two stories tall to do its damage. There was an exploratory area downstairs where we could pick up a starter, but in the spirit of partnership, a sign showed that one of us was to carry the other on his back when returning. In keeping with her FOB origin, she didn’t notice the position of the characters and began mounting me from the front, which I normally wouldn’t correct, but the immediate priority was to get out. Barry, who recently messaged the local LINE group from Hawaii, asked me if we’d like to battle, but I told him we were too low level, and I learned too late from another group of guys sitting at a table that we could’ve grinded on NPC mobs first while I gathered equipment for our laptops from an assortment of adapters.

My habit of reaching for the phone upon waking and checking my latest messages, even with nothing more to them than the daily spam that’s swiped to the trash, seems to be affecting my recall of any richer narrative from the streaming service of my subconscious, but because there must be something to the lingering remnants, please indulge me tracking them here:

Surely the inspiration for my pre-AR AR-idea, though every once in a great while I’m blessed by a real-life reminder, like the other evening when after hundreds of 全力坂 runs the Universe manages a confluence of upper-echelon specimen from the local demographic and timing along that stretch of Clydepark where my last sighting of one in cut-offs and cowboy boots I’ve come to dismiss as a mirage.