Part 2
I replayed this unusual dream in my head, over and over until, tired and spellbound, I was about to glide into a quiet, peaceful sleep. I rolled over into the most comfortable position but realised there was something in my bed. I felt through the sheets until I discovered the figurine of a toad in the pockets of my pyjamas. That’s how I knew once and for all that my dream hadn’t been a dream–or rather, it had been one of those dreams that permeate into the real world. You probably know them yourself.
To test it out–although I was already certain beyond proof–I went to the bathroom mirror and told my reflected self, “You are such an incredibly handsome guy.” No sooner did I finish speaking that, without having the slightest chance to resist–playfully, raunchily, my left eye winked. It felt like I couldn’t even take myself seriously.
And that’s how it happened. My shoes keep untying, I only eat pizza at home nowadays because I got tired of people staring or even being unabashedly amused at my forced new eating habits, and all the cashiers at my local store–along with many others–think I’m a creep.
I had no choice than to get to work and try my hardest to redeem myself from my crime. After long and careful consideration, I decided that the best way to reach my goals is to enrol the help of others. If I could only make stuff which would make others roll dice, and shuffle decks of cards, and plant a forest, surely in this era of outsourcing it would be added to my account.
So I started devising games and playing cards with the hope that, some sunny day, I will reach that millionth roll and that millionth shuffle, while the trees that I have indirectly planted will provide the perfect shade if the sun gets too hot. Then I could walk safely again, eat pizza with my hand, as nature intended, and be able to look in the mirror and tell myself how handsome I am without looking like a joke.
If there’s one good thing that came out of all this, it is the figurine. It is quite an exquisite piece. I keep it close on my desk, both for its beauty, and as a reminder of my travails. Her name, it was whispered to me, is Samooca. There was much I have learned about Samooca’s life just by looking at her and having imaginary conversations with her–and let me tell you, she had quite some stories to tell.
As for this story, some of you may have reasons to doubt it, especially so if you haven’t seen me in a pizzeria, or haven’t seen me thanking you for being such an outstandingly nice person for reading all of this. To the doubters and the unbelievers out there, I challenge them to take a look at Samooca. If she is real, then surely the rest of the story has to be too.
