Catalina's Milky Way Dreams(c) Re- Written 2024 - By The Depressed Poet, Doc Dalton
Shooting Stars and fast moving CarsRumble through the roads of my mindTick-e-ty Tock, the old sounds of the clockSay's it's almost a quarter past nine
The moons surely rising, the stars are a glidingAnd Mr. Sandman is ready to roamHurry off to bed and put your pillow under your headHe might just be visiting you tonight at homeDrifting off to sleep is such a wonderful featAdventures you'll enjoy on your ownMaking new friends on a journey to no endA secrete life that is yours all aloneDon't be afraid of those gobble lee goo'sOr those pirates drifting to sea on their boatsThere's no need to worry there just in your dreamsLike rainbow clouds and cotton candy floatsOh that sky's full of colors of make believe wondersExciting every step of the wayCan't you let me stay for just a little bit longerPlease, don't take my Dreams a wayTo see this through a child's eyesOn the path to where stars brightly beamThrough a different world of twist and twirlsWon't you come to my Milky Way DreamsWe could have so much funUnder an ice cream sun and laugh our time awaySing some M & M songs the whole day longUntil we awake to brand new day
Pluto say's hey kiddo don't get out of bedAs Snakel Puss laughs and says, ah it's OKKKKKKKKPopeye yell's, were gone in a minute after I eat me spinachPoo say's all aboard my Banana Split SleighOh that Sky's full of colors of make believe wondersExciting every step of the wayCan't you let me stay for just a little bit longerWorry not Catalina, we won't take your Dreams a way
To see this through a child's eyesOn the path to where stars brightly beamThrough a different world of twist and twirlsWon't you come to my Milky Way Dreams
Catalina say's, please come join me, on my Milky Way Dreams
I used to think having an imagination was a true gift. Now I'm pretty sure it's a lawsuit waiting to happen.
I always thought losing my mind would be more gradual. Like misplacing keys. Forgetting names. Accidentally calling the toaster "Steve."
Not this. This is organized. This is structured. This is bureaucratic insanity. Because now apparently my hallucinations have formed a governing body and my friend, I wish I was kidding.
See, I'm the guy who hears things, sees things, argues with things that according to every licensed professional I've met recently say are not there. And apparently, it's getting worse. That's their words, not mine. I prefer to call it "expanding the cast. Doctors are involved now. Plural. Which is never a good sign. When you go from "a doctor" to "a team of doctors," you're not trending in the right direction.
But here's where it really took a turn. I got into a full-blown argument with one of these people, you know the one who really isn't there. And I don't mean a polite disagreement. I mean yelling, pointing, maybe a shove-allegedly.
Next thing I know, this invisible son of a bitch files a complaint against me. With whom, you might ask?
The Office of Unforeseeable Actions of Unforeseeable People.
Yeah. That's a real place now. At least real enough for me to get written up.
Think about that. I'm being reported by someone who doesn't exist… to an office that doesn't exist about an incident that didn't exist. And get this, I'm the one on medication, go figure. But here's the part that shakes me the most. If none of this is real, why does it feel so real? Why does it make me sick? Why can't I control it? Why does it escalate like it's got a mind of its own?
And explain this to me, how does an imaginary person I am fighting with fart while standing next to me. The damn thing sounded real and if that's not bad enough, it smelled like hell? That's not imagination. That's a crime.
And while we're on the subject, if my brain is going to produce hallucinations, could it at least show a little taste? Why can't I get someone elegant? Someone refined? Why can't I get Salma Hayek walking down the hallway like a dream? Or Halle Berry just… appearing with good lighting and an even better sound track? No, no, no not me, Instead, I get… that fat chick from the biggest loser at the yearly competition of the Jenny Craig 500.
You know the one. Coming down the hallway like a slow-moving natural disaster. Walls trembling. Paint peeling. A sound that stays with you long after it's gone-real or not. It's horrifying. My imagination has terrible casting.
And talking about terrible casting, please let's not forget my wife. Why do I say that, because now I'm seeing two… sometimes three or even four of her at once. You heard me correctly, at once.
And let me tell you, one wife alone is already doing a perfectly fine job of driving me to jump off the roof top. Bitch doesn't need backup singers that's for sure. Because now with there being multiple versions of her, somehow they've unionized. They have a logo. They have a letterhead. They have office hours. They travel in pairs. Sometimes trios and even more. Like a judgmental girl group with no exit clause. One of them sighs. Another one repeats it louder. The third one writes it down for later. I am being audited emotionally. The only positive thing I can say about all this is, not one of my wife's at this point has farted, at least not yet. Trust me, I know what the real one smells like and it can clean out a sewage facility in under 30 seconds.
So now I'm stuck here, wondering, when does it end? When do I feel normal again? When do I get to close my eyes and just be done with all this for just a while? Possibly A day. A week. A year. Maybe even a lifetime. I'm not being difficult, I am being desperate.
I joke about it. I make fun of it. Because that's how I can survive this disfuntional chaos. But between you and me? It's exhausting. And some days I am dragging through-out my day, like the dog who drags their ass on the carpet when they have the itch, except this itches more.
So, in closing, I'd like to wish all my friends-real and unreal-a good day, a good life and may the Lord bless and protect you always.
And to Salma and Halle please listen, it's not too late. I'm still here. And at this point, real or not, I don't give a rat's ass because I 'm not in a position to be picky anyway.
I always thought losing my mind would be more gradual. Like misplacing keys. Forgetting names. Accidentally calling the toaster "Steve."
Not this. This is organized. This is structured. This is bureaucratic insanity. Because now apparently my hallucinations have formed a governing body and my friend, I wish I was kidding.
See, I'm the guy who hears things, sees things, argues with things that according to every licensed professional I've met recently say are not there. And apparently, it's getting worse. That's their words, not mine. I prefer to call it "expanding the cast. Doctors are involved now. Plural. Which is never a good sign. When you go from "a doctor" to "a team of doctors," you're not trending in the right direction.
But here's where it really took a turn. I got into a full-blown argument with one of these people, you know the one who really isn't there. And I don't mean a polite disagreement. I mean yelling, pointing, maybe a shove-allegedly.
Next thing I know, this invisible son of a bitch files a complaint against me. With whom, you might ask?
The Office of Unforeseeable Actions of Unforeseeable People.
Yeah. That's a real place now. At least real enough for me to get written up.
Think about that. I'm being reported by someone who doesn't exist… to an office that doesn't exist about an incident that didn't exist. And get this, I'm the one on medication, go figure. But here's the part that shakes me the most. If none of this is real, why does it feel so real? Why does it make me sick? Why can't I control it? Why does it escalate like it's got a mind of its own?
And explain this to me, how does an imaginary person I am fighting with fart while standing next to me. The damn thing sounded real and if that's not bad enough, it smelled like hell? That's not imagination. That's a crime.
And while we're on the subject, if my brain is going to produce hallucinations, could it at least show a little taste? Why can't I get someone elegant? Someone refined? Why can't I get Salma Hayek walking down the hallway like a dream? Or Halle Berry just… appearing with good lighting and an even better sound track? No, no, no not me, Instead, I get… that fat chick from the biggest loser at the yearly competition of the Jenny Craig 500.
You know the one. Coming down the hallway like a slow-moving natural disaster. Walls trembling. Paint peeling. A sound that stays with you long after it's gone-real or not. It's horrifying. My imagination has terrible casting.
And talking about terrible casting, please let's not forget my wife. Why do I say that, because now I'm seeing two… sometimes three or even four of her at once. You heard me correctly, at once.
And let me tell you, one wife alone is already doing a perfectly fine job of driving me to jump off the roof top. Bitch doesn't need backup singers that's for sure. Because now with there being multiple versions of her, somehow they've unionized. They have a logo. They have a letterhead. They have office hours. They travel in pairs. Sometimes trios and even more. Like a judgmental girl group with no exit clause. One of them sighs. Another one repeats it louder. The third one writes it down for later. I am being audited emotionally. The only positive thing I can say about all this is, not one of my wife's at this point has farted, at least not yet. Trust me, I know what the real one smells like and it can clean out a sewage facility in under 30 seconds.
So now I'm stuck here, wondering, when does it end? When do I feel normal again? When do I get to close my eyes and just be done with all this for just a while? Possibly A day. A week. A year. Maybe even a lifetime. I'm not being difficult, I am being desperate.
I joke about it. I make fun of it. Because that's how I can survive this disfuntional chaos. But between you and me? It's exhausting. And some days I am dragging through-out my day, like the dog who drags their ass on the carpet when they have the itch, except this itches more.
So, in closing, I'd like to wish all my friends-real and unreal-a good day, a good life and may the Lord bless and protect you always.
And to Salma and Halle please listen, it's not too late. I'm still here. And at this point, real or not, I don't give a rat's ass because I 'm not in a position to be picky anyway.
