I was sleep-walking, and I went outside to talk to the rain. As I walked through the barn door, an aggressive splinter caught my dress, which snagged and ripped. As I pulled the splinter from the cloth, the murderous splinter bit my finger, began screaming obscenities about my dress being too short and how the Alamo Drafthouse had changed its menu and how much that sucks. All the while my finger is bleeding furiously, all over said dress, which in retrospect, really was too short. At the sight of so much blood and boring menu, I grew faint, and reached for the barn door in my vertigo. It collapsed inward at my touch, sucking me into another dimension where all the people were naked hippies with tattoos who ate food from converted VW buses while standing outside in 100 degree weather listening to a great local band and bragging about doing yoga. The gd***ed barn door had transported me back to Austin, TX. Luckily, the guy who caught me was really cute and geeky and wearing tights. He graciously lent me his tights since my dress was too short, and went to kick the barn door’s ass. I decided to hang around because he can totally fix my motorcycle. In tights!
As it turned out, he can do amazing things with Velcro, as well.
I’m still pissed about the dress.
There is fiction. There is life. What is the difference?
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