If liking you means Slipknot will kick my ass, then maybe we should just make out a little and call it a day.

(I'm punk rock and I title all my nodes, dream entry or no dream entry.)

A little information before we get to my dream.

Last night I had a date with a pretty girl. She was of the post-hardcore frenetic mosh crowd, highly evolved and well read, had unnatural colored hair styled in a very toned down, casual way, and listened to but *didn't* define herself (Thank God) by the indie-rock music she enjoyed on her mp3 player during her morning subway commute.

We had dinner, took a walk, and called it an early evening because I was sleepy. I'd been up for a good twenty hours or so before the date, graphic designing stuff for work and for myself. It was a really nice evening, even though I was hurting for some much needed sleepies. Luckily, the conversation was wonderful and she was absolutely stunning to watch. The kind of girl that gets prettier and prettier when she says certain vowels that do subtle contortions underneath round, natural lips. So that was that. I'm not really one to push hard for a second date, so we had one very sexy kiss and called it a night. Good dates are like good PC video games. Enjoy it as much as you can before you finish it and don't expect much out of the sequel.

So I prep up for some much needed sleep. I put on my dragonball Z jammies (which, btw, come in sizes small, medium, and hopeless) and go to sleep.

My dream starts off innocent enough. I'm walking along the outer concrete path which later winds up into Randall's Island Stadium. Through no specific information gleaned in the dream, I am positive that I am going to a Warp Tour outdoor concert. You know, those things with five hundred stages where every fifteen year old with an mxpx shirt can play a set with his punk band of other kids with mxpx shirts.

I wonder around, careful to not get caught looking at all the girls in belly shirts, and lo and behold, the girl from this evening's date is directly in front of me. A few feet behind a security barricade, she is wearing a belly shirt and khaki jnco twin cannon scary-person pants.

And she's making out with all the members of Slipknot.

So of course, I walk over there with every intention of picking a fight with everyone's favorite metal sensation from Iowa. I jump the security barricade and begin my jiggly, erratic run towards violent mass deconstruction of those fuckers who stole the smart and pretty girl away from me. As I feel the rounds of fat slowly slap against my internal organs and the sweat begin to form and crease down my forehead, I realize that this fight is not going to really go in my (a fat angry kid's) favor. Too late though.

Fuckin' hell if I'm not gonna start some kinda shit for all my sweatin' and goddamn running. I didn't do all this dreaming and jogging and anger mis-management for nothing.

It's only when I'm about to kick some tall man wearing a Pinocchio-from-hell mask in the cock that I realized I was still in my dragonball Z jammies. It was suddenly more important for me to stop and contemplate the fact that I dream with my pajamas on than to finish through with my deep-feeling surprise kick of testicular meltitude. Interestingly enough, this was the same time all nine members of Slipknot realized what I was up to.

It should have been that I woke up the moment one of those rubber masked fuckers laid a hand on me. Not the case. I begin to get my ass beat into the lawn and my dignity smeared along the soiled ground and bloody rocks beneath me.

All around me, young little gap-rock punkers and white kids with clown and gasmasks on are lining up around the security barricades. I suppose, as I lay here taking the pummeling of my life, that Slipknot will be playing their much anticipated set soon. In good form, the fans shout praise for the band's current album release as they somewhat disband partially from the ass-kick to sign autographs and take pictures with their loyal hellfire cadre of hard-cored children.

Meanwhile, I weep uncontrollably as my thick layer of fat loses its ability to shield those more important organs from laced up metal plated boots. My fetal position turns more into a ragged, half hearted squat as I try to fend off hands, boots, and screaming rubber masks while alternately trying to find the pretty girl with the unnatural colored hair.

Just then I see her on stage, making out with the dread locked member of Slipknot. Throngs of captive audience hard-rockers cheer and clap at such a scene.

An asskicking, some bootie gettin', and a set by Slipknot?

I'd probably be cheering too.

You know, if it wasn't *me* getting killed.

Oh, and if I liked Slipknot.

I wake up finally and drink some water. It's 5am and hopefully some Iron Chef reruns will be on TV. They should really take Martha Stewart off the air too. She's fucking annoying and I bet Slipknot would agree with me.