I am still in South Dakota. Tonight I completed my purpose for being here, the wedding of two friends, an event that went much better than the last two such events I attended. Better cake too, I think.
For the record, though, I suck at weddings. That is all I will say for now.

Here is the most bizarre dream I have ever had; it occurred at approximately five-thirty on the morning of the sixteenth of June, a Monday. It is probably not suitable for children and people offended by bloodshed. The text is taken verbatim from a transcription made immediately after I was awoken by my alarm clock.

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Woke up during an absolutely surreal dream this morning.

After fighting the forces of evil for a while and hanging out at the radio station, I went home (home home) to the old neighborhood to celebrate my upcoming 21st birthday. (Note to self: Miller Light in a plastic jug--"jug beer"--is a horrible idea.) Parents tried to drag me to a festival in Custer at one in the morning (as I was mildly intoxicated from jug beer); I jumped from the car on the way out and walked home and up Crestwood street a ways to find a three year-old boy following me. When I stopped to face him, he cut and ran past me, then stopped and started trying to steal a bike chained to someone's mailbox.

"Mister, do you know anything about stealing bikes?" he asked me coyly.

I gaped for a moment, then grabbed the boy and ran. Soon, all the abused children of the neighborhood were revolting, and Laurence Fishburn and I were trying to figure out what to do about it as we stood by an outdoor Krispy Kreme donut rack (into which I had crammed the mouthy toddler). Suddenly, the resident of the nearest house walks out of her front door. Holding a sign saying "the first suicides will not be televised," she quickly began tying the free end of the lasso around her neck to the top of the door frame.

"You don't have to do this, you know," protested Mr. Fishburn and I.

"Oh, I know," she answered, "but it's great publicity for the Cause."

We paused. "Right, then."

The woman then procured a knife, which she promptly drove through her crotch and invited us to 'tap' and drink her blood before completing the hanging and dying. Shrugging, Laurence Fishburn and I devised a crude siphon so the blood gushing forth from her body was not wasted, and everyone in the neighborhood came out to sample the vitae. (It tasted okay.) Then everyone started making blood jokes, including one hell of a zinger delivered by a misogynist talking tuna.

I woke up right about then.