May 1, 2017
I wish I knew that someone might read this but
even if I do meet a girl one day, she’s not gonna want to read all this, well
this Word document journal is only 31 pages, which is nothing compared to my stories which are almost always over 100 pages each. But it would take her months to read
all my stories. I mean I kinda hope she would want to, because to read my
stories is to know who I truly am. I’m vulnerable in them because they are an
alternate version of myself. They are sometimes quite close to the actual me,
but since the experiences in them I have never actually experienced before; this
alternate reality christie is just that: not real. I can only speculate what I
would do or say in the situations I’m in, in them. But the situations are
fantasy. Comparatively, I feel that traveling through a wormhole to an
alternate universe with my girlfriend who came down from heaven and previously
died in the 1940s, is as far-fetched as the part about me having a girlfriend
in the first place and having sex with that girlfriend. Those are equally
improbable, at least in my mind. But I have this theory which has no scientific
background other than “I wish for it to be true,” but I’m going to convince
myself that in my dreams when I’m asleep, I’m actually crossing over into one of those
alternate universes. Who’s to say that’s not true? Millions of people believe
in heaven with absolutely no scientific proof that it exists. No one has come
back from it to say for sure. Sure some have “seen a bright light.” So? I see
bright lights too, like when I gave blood and passed out. I didn’t die, but if your blood pressure bottoms out or
something like that, you’d most likely see bright lights anyway. Your body’s
reaction. If that’s all heaven is: a bright light and people who died before
you- bore snore. I’d rather go to my place. So when I dreamt a couple nights
ago that I was hanging out with Kate Mckinnon at a house and I was helping her
with some project in which I was handing her cutouts of letters; that was
actually me in another Universe. And when she sat on my lap and she was wearing
a t-shirt and just panties and I looked down and saw her creamy white thigh and
felt her smooth skin with my hand, that was actually another me doing that. I
was that “other me” for a time, being that I was taking her place in that other
Universe for the time being. But then something pulled me back as I was trying
to get the courage to talk to her. I knew what I was going to say. But I didn’t
get it out before I was sucked back to THIS Universe and was awoken. Maybe it
was because I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was taking that other Christie’s
place for a second. But what I was going to say was: “Sometimes all it takes is
one incredible moment, to make all the other boring, un-special moments, worth
having in the first place.” And then hopefully she would look down into my
eyes, from my lap, wrapping her arms around me and kiss me. That’s what she’d
do, if I could’ve stayed in that alternate Universe a little longer. Well, at
least one of the versions of myself is having a fun, sexually rewarding life.
One of the Christie’s should.
June 3, 2017
I had another dream about Kate
Mckinnon last night. We finally made out. Finished what was started back a
month earlier I guess. We were in bed and we were full on kissing. I think I
could feel her lips, taste them, even in my dream. A day has gone by now since
I woke from that dream early this morning, so I’m already starting to forget
the details but when I woke I remember thinking I did it! I can die now. I got
to make out with Kate in a dream. I’m good. I’ve accomplished everything I
wanted to accomplish. That’s really sad I know. My life is so freaking
pointless and depressing that just by merely having a dream where I got to make
out with my dream girl, I’ve made it. I’ve reached as far as I can go. It’s all
I’ve ever wanted, or I guess I don’t think it could get any better than that
for me. That dream is the best it can get. Since I’ve never been one to be able
to make myself dream something that I’ve
wanted to dream, just the fact that I dreamt it all on my own, without forcing
it to happen, I feel “accomplished” or something. That’s really depressing, but
it’s the truth. We hadn’t made it to the sex part before I woke up. But maybe
that’s for another night. At least I got to kiss her. And it wasn’t something I
wrote in one of my stories. It was real. Well it was a dream, but it was as
real as anything could ever be for me. My stories are literally all I have,
where I make things happen in them that I wish would happen in real life. I
write them into existence. Into MY existence. But my dreams are not something I
can control. Much like my real life. I had a dream a few weeks back that was
terrifying and involved monsters and melting faces. It was so weird you would’ve
thought I was on drugs. So I know that I can’t control what I dream. Sure
things come up from what you saw on TV that day or something that’s bothering
you or just your most deepest desires, but you still can’t “make” yourself
dream something and make all the details exactly how you like them, just like
you can’t in real life. So, I’m taking this as a win. Score one for team
Christie.
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