Insomniac Dreams
�Cindy� is scrawled upon the notepad that rests on the nightstand next to my bed. I have kept a writing implement as well as something to scribble on next to my bed for about three years now, which is pretty much since I discovered a knack for writing. Some of my more outrageous ideas tend to spawn just before I slip into slumber and sometimes in the middle of the night and on occasions, when I first wake each day; such is the curse of an insomniac.
This particular image was from last night�s dreamland and a dream that was so vivid that it forced me to wake in the middle. Or at least that is what I assume, since I have no recollection of waking, just the crudely penned note and the confused hodge-podge of dreamscape memories. It seems without THC enhanced blood, dreams are coming in greater frequency these days.
So who is Cindy and what the fuck was she doing in my head, you might ask, dearest of diaries? The who is easy and the why could be complicated, but probably isn�t. Cindy was a friend from days of yore that helped me through a rough spot in life, another one of those �transformation� periods I am so fond of doting on. At a time when I was shucking the bonds of drug addiction and finding that I didn�t have any friends, beyond the circle of dope addicts and dealers, Cindy was my beacon in the night. Along with an exact Virgo carbon copy of myself that manifested in a female form named Rosemary (Cindy�s best friend and seriously me with a pair of size D tits and a vaginal opening), we formed a tight-knit, shit talking, beer drinking/pot smoking, Uno playing trio that ravaged the local music scene for our own personal amusement and use.
I was technically not a groupie, because, A) I never got laid the entire year or so we hung together, B) They did and C) I�m a dude and the only chick band in our local scene at the time, wouldn�t give me the time of day. My official title was never set in stone, some nights I was �the driver�, others I was �the loyal side-kick�, on rare occasions I was rather amusingly referred to as �the body guard�, �pot hook-up�, �the pimp� and once when Cindy got pissed at me for dragging her away from a disease ridden bass player, �that fucking asshole that doesn�t have a life.� Cindy was a very sharp, very cute, very manipulative and very smart, royal mother-fucking bitch, which is of course, why I was enamored with her. She was tattooed, sported curly red hair, glowing green eyes that always lit up like Christmas lights because her eye shadow and mascara was always two shades two dark for her pale skinned complexion. She had no tits to speak (or so she always boasted) and therefore never wore bras, this of course gave me lots of opportunities to check out her very nicely formed (if not small) breasts pretty much all the time. **Side note, Rosemary, by contrast, would always where very short skirts and shorts and never wore underwear. In our late night games of Uno, when the beer flowed and the pot was plentiful, we would always get a little looser being in the company of friends. On these warm summer nights, I would alternate between looking down Cindy�s shirts and up Rosemary�s skirts; Buddha himself couldn�t have created a more yin/yang, balanced, Zen like setting for yours truly.
But Cindy was a bitch, which I say in the best possible way, because she openly admitted it to just about everyone. She was also very strange. She listened to �indie� music before it was emo, she hated driving but always insisted on doing so because she never trusted anyone else�s driving skills and would freak out anytime she had to ride and not drive. Cindy enjoyed toying with me (and men in general), leading me around like a trained monkey and relished in baiting and badgering me at every turn. This is where I first learned my patience when dealing with the fairer sex and also was where the seedling was planted that would eventually blossom into an ego the size of a Redwood tree. During these times, her final attempt to drive a stake threw my heart, came when Cindy decided to play two boyz against each other, both of which worked together, both of which were pining for her attention and one of which is me; the other is my buddy, the Last Zion. The Zion and I are still friends to this day and after we bonded so well upon our first meeting (where we both looked at each other and shrugged, well knowing what Cindy had planned), she gave up and actually opened up to me. Two weeks later, she was weeping on my shoulder and spilling every gut she had to me when I was the one and only person who took her out for her 21st birthday. Even when I finally managed to find friends of my own, we stayed in touch for a couple of years. Cindy eventually got engaged and Rosemary disappeared to follow her dream of being a modern art, artist. They were a pair of the weirdest chicks I�ve ever met (and that is saying a lot), which is why I thoroughly enjoyed my time with them.
The last Zion is still around and sometimes, on warm summer nights, he and I will break out the beat-up pack of Uno cards I still have. We swig beer, smoke a joint and laugh and remember Rosemary and Cindy and all the strangeness that seemed to follow this duo wherever they went. The Zion and I make boasts someday tracking them down, but sometimes memories and odd dreams of times long past are better left untouched as not to disturb the pictures and dreams we still have in our heads.
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