Tag Archives: lost

Lottery

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I had the wildest dream last night.  I dreamt that I won the lottery.  It was a magnificent dream. 

Just as I left the petrol station with my ticket, I heard the numbers over the radio of a passing car and realised that I had won fifty million dollars.  I leapt in the air, and yelled, “YeeHaaw”.

I ran inside, knocking people over on my way to the clerk, and slammed my ticket down on the counter, demanding my cashola.  The clerk called the officials and the local news media.  People swarmed around me, as I kept a tight grip on the ticket like a child to a bottle. 

The state lottery officials arrived and validated the ticket.  They shook my hand and offered their felicitations. 

We were directed outside where hundreds of people had gathered.  The media van strobe lights were beaming into my retinas, as I ran outside.  The clickety-clack of camera shutters reverberated through the station, as I stood in awe of the mass of people here to see little ol’ me.

“What do you plan on doing with the money?”  A reporter from a fox affiliate pleaded, whilst ramming her mic in my face.

A great silence swept over the crowd awaiting my response.

“I will give a large sum to charity, and go make things right with an ex..  And, I’ll deposit the rest of my money in the Bank of England.”

A great gasp echoed through the crowd from right to left.  People stood still, with their mouths agape. 

“I’m just kidding…the Bank of Ireland”, I laughing muttered, as I took in the seriousness of the matter.

I had to go to the Supreme Court to get my money.  By then a quarter of it had been sucked up by blood sucking lawyers. 

I put my money in an international bank just to spite the haters.  I picked up Dr. Don, Brian F., and we headed for Dublin. 

The last thing I remember was buying everyone in the Temple Bar district a round of drinks.  

What would you do, if you won the lottery?

I’d try to make a difference in this whacky world.  Of course, I’d have to have Guinness and Bulmers air shipped to me wherever I would be.  

I’d have to by the Playboy mansion for weekend excursions.    ;)

I could ramble on about lost love and how much I wish I could rewind the clock, but I’m not going to.  It’s not over ‘til it’s over.

Never underestimate a Davis.

P.S.:  I sincerely apologise for not being around to pester the lot of you lately. 

Muse

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Okay…Well, my honest muse got a hold on me last night and wouldn’t let go, until I released the previous post. Evidently it scared or spooked you all – you know, the truth and all that. I was going to write a long post apologising for it, but I decided against it. If you can’t handle a little truth every now and again from a guy that is just trying to tell you a story that may educate you in some manner, as I hope to be educated by each of you, then maybe you need to reflect on your own insecurities.

Look, I do get a bit long winded about the truth and perhaps I do write stuff that is a bit sad sometimes. But, that is life, with all of its ups and downs. People are like the seasons, for they are constantly in transformation, like myself.

The bullshitting fictional muse is on call from sun up ’til I get home in the evening. By that time, the grand clown of muse is ready for a nap, so I let the non-fictional/honest muse out. That muse knows all ’bout the heart wrenching feelings portrayed in some of my stories. Occasionally, he’ll add a bit more drama or change a name or place to protect the innocent, but in the end, the stories written on this blog are my own. And, you’ll have to admit that I’m one unique abstract individual. We are all unique in our own ways, and we can each express it in different ways.

At present, my muses voices are reminding me of how I laughed out loud at the guy across from me, because of the lying and scheming advances he was making towards a gorgeous blonde. They are also screaming for me to tell you of how bad I wanted to slap the know-it-all attitude out of the artsy hyper bloke sitting next to me on the bus to the museum. But, most of all, they want me to express how exhilarating it was for me to stand and almost touch art that was over four thousand years old, how captivated I was while standing in front of “The Tiber” and the “Statue of Neshor”, and how I reflected on the clay “The Passion of the God Lilu”.

As much as I love the art work itself, I always find myself thinking about the artist behind it. Who was this person? Did they have a family? Was he or she a hard labourer? What inspired them? Who supported them?

Anyhew, I hope you all have a grand weekend. Wish my sheep counting well. Baahh! :)
High Museum