gunslinger

I love my new name.

I saw it yesterday for the first time on my new school ID. It made me sooooooo happy. I'm still happy.

My dreams have turned into random guidance: If placed in this situation, I should do this. My latest dream had tips on how to make a famous rock star fall in love with me. I’d love to share the details of this juicy dream, but isn’t there a superstition about telling dreams? That if you tell them they won’t come true? Or was that just for birthday and eyelash wishes?

Last year I had a horrible nightmare about getting an evil roommate with a dog (which is illegal on campus) and it came true. I don’t remember if I told anyone. I think I would have blogged about it, but I erased my blogs because of that snooping person from State so I can’t do any inside research.

I do really want to tell you.

It was a nice, strong house. I think I lived there once upon a time. Margarita and her friends were going around bullying people, and I would have no part of it.

There was a dog shelter not to far away, and I was going to adopt a dog before all of this happened.

A girl in a green, flowing fairy-like dress was asking for Margarita. She wanted to know why they were being mean to her brother. I look a picture of the girl because she looked so surreal. No one should be so beautiful. It wasn't fair to the rest of us.

I couldn’t answer for Maggie because no one knew why she changed. In high school, Margarita was somewhat of a nerd, and everyone liked her. Then one day she decided that she was going to morph into a tough girl, but only used tough girl stereotypes she’d stolen from TV. Her closest friends were ones that did cocaine and slept with every guy they met. I’m not sure how Maggie figured these losers were “cool” but logic was lost on this girl.

The sky turned black and the clouds hung low. I saw it all before.
“Where have you been?” Margarita asked.
“Look what you and your friends have done,” I said looking to the sky. Someone had gotten revenge for Margarita’s ways, only we were all going to pay for it.

Margarita went into the poorly build garage where her friends were smoking weed before heading out to a restaurant. I went outside to capture the moment on film. Not them smoking, but the retaliation.

There was an explosion in the sky—just like I had seen in my dream. Two balls of fire pulled away from each other in a V shape. I hit the record button on my camera and held it steady. Then shards from the explosion in the sky started to strike the ground. I ran inside the house and looked for the strongest part of the structure, which was between a door frame. The shards were the size of chairs and computers. Screams came from everywhere. It was all Margarita’s fault. I wondered more about the poor dog at the pound than Margarita’s friends in the gargage. I wish I had been somewhere better, like under a bridge.