The Eggs of Dementia

I didn’t dream that night. What a fucking joke. I was so pissed when I woke up to my alarm clock at 5:30 that I threw my pillow across the room, knocking down all the chotchkies on my dresser. I staggered to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked. As I jiggled it some more, a chill enveloped the room and spectral winds blew open my windows. I was knocked to the floor and as I tried to re-coordinate myself, the white unicorn, or just Rarity, was before me, in all her majestic and graceful beauty. It dawned on me that I was dreaming, but this is where you could say the game had changed.

“Darling,” she began to say.

“Stop fucking saying that, you bitch,” I snapped.

“…you really must learn to defend yourself,” she exclaimed.

Well, this was absolutely true, but anyone could tell me that. But, of course, because it was me, it had to be a unicorn in a dream.

“How?” I inquired firmly.

“By pulling up your pants, ponyboy.” she said in a male voice as I fell into my seat in first hour English, or at least felt like I had.

“RARITY!” I said out loud, bashing my head on the table and realized that I was actually dreaming in class. It dawned on me that this was the next day in English and I had fallen asleep listening to my iPod. Apparently, my plastic shorts had fallen down a bit and people were staring at my buttocks.

It was only day two and the days were already morphing right into the next. I wanted to die.

Later, in P.E., I was sitting alone in the bleachers when I was approached by a couple of bullies, two of which were from my English class.

“Dude, this kid plays Runescape!” one of them said. I would later learn his name was Chet.

“What level are you, dude?” another one of them, Steve, asked.

Well, this had some potential, I thought. They seemed interested in Runescape, at least enough to approach me, but I would soon come to find out it was just a ploy; just as much of a ploy as something Lord Hawkvomit would conjure up.

“138…” I said.

“Dude, I’m like 150.” Chet said, laughing, flicking his wrist.

“You can’t go higher than 138.” I exclaimed, as if it really mattered to these ruffians. I actually said the word ruffians in my head whenever I thought of them. I was proud, because I learned that word from my newfound goddess Rarity.

“I can go higher than 138, like at Stephanie’s party last night…” another bully, Dave, said, bumping fists with his cohorts and obviously referring to substance abuse… I thought. I hoped…

And so another night, another opportunity to enter the Plane of Torment. I snuck two of my dad’s sleeping pills and popped them with a gulp of bottled water before lying in my coffin, anticipating a dream to save me from myself…