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November 2005

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11/26/2005: "True Love"

music: The Swan by Camille Saint-Saens
mood: Delicate

I'd just finished the script for the Frenchman when David Lynch's head spoke to me.
"Did you remember to include women kissing?"
I laughed. "No one does any kissing. No one does any killing. It's about real life, in a surrealistic mode of thinking."
"So they just get right down to the sex, and the hero maims his enemies, is that it?"
I laughed even louder this time. "No. It's a sweet tale, in a weird sort of way. But if the Frenchman wants to put in a psychotic lesbian killer or two, and have a few explosions along the way, I won't fight
it. That's entertainment."
I yawned, and laid on the floor. Soon I was asleep, and I found myself in the dairy cooler of the college campus center where I worked. Milk cartons were stacked at weird angles, and milk had leaked on the floor. I ran out into the kitchen in search of a towel, cussing under my breath that so much had gone wrong in my brief absence from the place. I sang 'Trouble' by Clarence Henry when I got back into the cooler, and began to wipe up the mess. Later, I would have to come back with a mop, I figured.
As I kneeled on the cold metal floor, a young lady walked in.
"Do you have any orange juice?" she asked.
I smiled and said, "Yes. Let me get it for you." I stood and took a few brief steps to where the juice was. She followed, and I was surprised by how close she was when I turned around.
"Thank you," she said sweetly. "My name is Alanidondra." She took out a pen, and a scrap of paper, then she wrote her phone number. I took out a piece of paper, and wrote down mine, then we exchanged the pieces of paper.
"Maybe we can get together soon," I said.
"You are so sweet. All the bad things I hear about you must be lies."
"Only the things that aren't true."
We laughed, then she left me to the mess I had found. Once I had cleaned it up, I left the cooler. I looked all over the kitchen, but she was nowhere to be seen. Disappointed by this, I threw myself into my work, avoiding all the co-workers who had told her all sorts of horrible things. I walked up to my loading dock to crush cardboard, and I found the Frenchman, an intact David Lynch, and a film crew in the middle of filming a movie.
"In this scene," Mr. Lynch said, "I want the psychotic lesbian killers to tear off their shirts and start kissing."
Against my better judgement, I objected. "No, they would not do that on a bale of cardboard. They would throw a palette on the floor instead."

The dock transformed into a soundstage, and I saw Alanidondra in the background, when the Frenchman came towards me. "I will not have you interfere with the auteur, you scribbler. I have given you the chance of your miserable life, and now you must atone for not knowing your place."
"Oui, oui," I screamed, and muscular men ripped off my clothes and I kneeled in front of the Frenchman. I rubbed his crotch tenderly, a tear rolling down my cheek as I unzipped his fly and pulled out his penis. "Forgive me, please forgive me," I said, but more to Alanidondra than to him. His cock stiffened as I licked it, and I placed my lips around it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my dream lover cry and turn away; a few minutes later, when he pulled his penis out of my mouth and came in my face, Alanidondra looked back once more, then left the set. I cried, then the sorrow turned to laughter as I stood and wiped the jism off my face with my shirt. "My love is dead to me now," I said, as the cast and crew applauded. "Who will make love to this dead man?" The stongest and most handsome of my accosters held me close, and I swooned.
That was when I awoke, a tear rolling down my cheek.
"She was beautiful, wasn't she?" David's head asked.
"Oui," I sighed. "She was so beautiful."

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