What is there to write about?

I've got a blog, too! Most of my close friends have one, so I figured I might as well join the fun.

I tell you, people: I've been having some really fucked up dreams lately. They're not fucked up in the same way as Lewis Carroll's "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" or Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein," though. Their dreams, albeit strange and crazy, weren't nearly as fucked up as mine. Their dreams allowed them to each write a series of beloved novels, both of which have been adapted into films numerous times (IMDb lists over 20,000 movies based on both authors' works) and I'm sure their estates are filthy rich because of it. But me... nah... my crazy ass dreams can't be made into books or movies. They always lack the essential plot points that prevent them from making any fucking sense. I had a temporarily badass dream just last night, for example:

I was part of a domestic terrorism group that was supposed to plant two car bombs near a dam or reservoir that served a major metropolitan area. Let's say it was Cleveland. I think the plan was to flood the city so the President would visit the city and pledge to help all the displaced citizens (a la New Orleans), and then assassinate him while he was making his speech. So me and my brother planted the bombs, and as we were walking away we were like, "Oh shit! People in Cleveland are gonna die!" I know, I know. Who cares about Cleveland? But we stopped being terrorists and suddenly wanted to save everyone. We tried to deactivate the bombs before they detonated, but we got there just as they exploded. The first bomb didn't break the dam, but the second one busted it wide open. The humongous blast of water that fell on us was pretty fucking sweet, and if done right, could have been the cornerstone of this political-action-thriller. I seriously woke up thinking that one scene would have been one of those awesome "Whoa" moments. But shit! The rest of the film would make no fucking sense! It had a good(-ish) plot, but had WAY too many ridiculous holes. I gave up one adapting it into a screenplay before I even took my morning piss.

My point is, I think when Mary Shelley was sleeping and Lewis Carroll was tripping off mushrooms, their dreams weren't as fucked up as mine that they couldn't turn their craziness into the famous works of art they are. So fuck my dreams. And fuck whoever else gets rich off shit they didn't even think of themselves. That's plagiarism.