Dandelion Wine.

I'm anxious for tomorrow and I can't sleep.

Now packed, having edited my new phone to satisfaction, and still unable to catch a Z, I've begun tending to some things I never tended to, but meant to.

Like straining the lees out from the dandelion wine I've been brewing.

I brought the dandelion wine up in another post, so I figure, since I can't sleep and I've got nothing better to do, I'll talk about it.

I've always liked dandelions. When I was a little boy, I remember playing in my Father's friend Dave's yard, and he had fields of them. Dandelions as far as my little legs could carry me, and a big dog who liked to play fetch.

Then, like all things young and carefree, it stopped, and I didn't like dandelions anymore. They became something to get rid of doing yardwork. Something with a funny name. Something to pick and disregard.

But then I read Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 and something seemed so happy and youthful about Clarisse McClellan running a dandelion under Guy Montag's chin to find out if he were in love.

My love-affair with the dandelion was quickly renewed.

I learned the greens are edible.

I learned they're a coffee-substitute if brewed.

I learned their name means "Lion's Teeth" and comes from the shape of the raggedy leaves at their base.

I learned they're lunar flowers associated with flirtation.

I learned they're a potent diuretic.

They're ripe for wine in May.

And I read Ray Bradbury's Dandelion Wine - a book about mortality.

When Onni died, I was proud to have done something about it. Everyone was kind of in a state of shock, and the details seemed to ebb and flow between concerned parties with little consensus. I gathered everyone. I explained what had happened. I apologized for keeping them all pacified when he had been hospitalized. And we mourned. And most of us wrote his mother, Iris, to show our support, condolences, and respect.

Pyon worried me when he said he might be on his last leg, too.

I wanted to be like I was with Onni for him. I didn't just want to prop my feet up and wonder what to do. To  hope for the best and let that be it, and I had been reading about some of the exploits on Kickstarter where people were fending for their goals with small handicrafts.

I decided if Shawn were to go, I would auction off a bottle of home-made dandelion wine, and give his parents the proceeds to help pay for his cremation.

I picked three pounds of them. I boiled them with sugar, ginger, and citrus. I strained them. I bottled them. I fermented them. I strained them more. And finally, I capped and wrapped it with some paper and twine.

I made a bottle, too, for when I settle-down, and another for Claire, the only person I know with an expertise on booze.

Here's the finished product.

It's kind of haphazard, I know, but I don't exactly have wine-bottles laying around. I used a glass soda-bottle, covered in paper and placed in a cool dresser upright with a balloon capped-over it to release the fermenting CO2 without contaminating it. I capped it, and now it's finished. I'm told that since glass doesn't expand under pressure, nor allow much to permeate it, it's ideal for wine.

The dandelions have all been exterminated now. Shortly after I picked the several pounds I needed to make the wine, a storm came and wilted all their sunny little heads.

It feels like I've bottled a secret corner of time - that odd junction between Spring and Summer - and hidden it to be enjoyed on some lonely Winter night.

Out Until Otherwise Noted.

I AM LEAVING FOR AWHILE.

So, in the meantime, here's a drawing of a hypothetical Fallout: New Vegas character.

Her name is Mole.

You make a lot of hypothetical characters when you can't play vidya.

I Wanna Be the Pope.

A Very Hard Game About a Nun and 8-Bit Masochism.

To Do List:

Exchange Cans.

Learn How to Fasten a Tie.

Wax-Cap the Bottles of Dandelion Wine.

Conclude Recipe List.

Isolate Peta Self-Portrait.

Pick up Lavender Seeds.

Jog.

Put Out Mail.

Take Pre-ASVAB Practice.

The Official Pyon Post.

I guess it's kind of a Plat du Jour. A friend of mine, Shawn "Pyonta," has been in pretty awful health since I've known him, but he grew concerned that he might die, and I panicked.

Pyon's been concerned for his life often. His life has been, as I recall him once saying, "One prolonged staring-match with Death." He often survives. Other times, he flat-lines and comes back. It's never easy, and there've been times where he blatantly has lost some of his senses for extended periods of time. Even, once, his circadian rhythm after a lesion damaged his Hypothalamus. It's all a sum of his HHT - Hereditary Hemorrhagic Telangiectasia. As I understand it, his body doesn't produce capillaries, which kind of power-houses and detonates his vessels. Moreover, I believe it makes anomalous vessels or severe breaks and lesions in his brain, liver, and lungs. I don't know. It's kind of technical, and I read about it with a rudimentary understanding of many of the terms used. I only have a basic medical education.

But his Girl's always been the thing to get him through times like, well. Everyday. And he loves her dearly. They exchange caffeine-molecule coffee cups. He's stayed up late to catch her waking up. They've kind of been the couple I've wanted to be like, frankly.

But she left him recently. And his health sort of nose-dived. Or at least Pyon's will to live.

I didn't know what to say to him. I can't even claim to relate to him when the guy fends off shit that would cripple me, daily.

I don't know if he's got a long time or a little time, so I think I'm just going to tell you guys about Shawn. In fact, I'd typed the title of this to be "Dandelion Wine," but I think I'll change that right about now and call this The Official Pyon Post.

Maid Army's always been kind of an odd place. I think my statement that we're a Loose Collective of Don't-Give-a-Fuck is about right, until we have an event. Like the marrow drive, or the Package for the People we assembled. There were times Chat was active, and there were times it was dead. I think I met Shawn when it was live and when Fistbeard used to hang around there, too. Probably two years ago. Maybe three at this point. I was definitely ousted from the graced of Twohou if I were spending that much free time in Maid Army, because the two didn't get along.

But I remember we were all talking about how often I mail people, and I had just gotten some odd postcards featuring people arguing on a sign advertising bacon, Brando's moustache, and many slices of pie served at a Psychiatric Convention. I'd said that I wouldn't be above writing anyone in Maid Army. Fistbeard jumped aboard and so did Pyon. Pyon even wrote me back.

We began talking daily, and we had a mutual friend in Connor "Cat" Manley. Pyon had just recently been admitted into the hospital for an extended stay, and Connor was craving baked goods. I made a massive batch of what Shawn says is now his favorite flavor of cookie - Cranberry and White Chocolate Oatmeal Cookies. They briefly earned me the title of Food Waifu. It was pretty crazy, though. Suddenly, there'd been a huge demand for them. Everyone wanted some. Even Liam who never asks for anything. I made like, six batches in two days. I didn't want to look at another cookie for a long while.

...Funny story about Liam's - I mailed them in an impact-proof envelope and they never arrived. We like to joke that they were lost at Canadian Postal-Check, and that they have rotted and mutated far into sentience and now resemble something akin to the Venus Fly Trap from Little Shop of Horrors. Feeeeeed me, Seymour.

Pyon's never had too easy a go at life. I remember the moment he got out of the Hospital, post cookie-arrival, he'd chased his dog into the woods and got bitten by wild dogs. And another time where someone tried to break into his house, and Pyon'd actually stabbed the man. He spiraled into panic and guilt because the man died after fleeing the scene and the Police kind of found the body.

Once, they'd even opened him up to cauterize the lesions that often plague his lungs, and they'd accidentally sewn him back shut with a scalpel inside of him. I believe he literally removed it by hand, tugging it through his sutures. There are few things as utterly bad-ass as that. Bruce Lee probably comes close.

These things, they were  all pretty outrageous. I used to tell Pyon he should write a book.

...His names. Shit, I should talk about that a bit. Pyon's always had a hilarious fondness for over the top offensive screen-names in game. I think it may have been a fondness started by his friend, Johnny Cuntwreck, but I'm not certain He started it himself. Most recently, he's used VirginBuster, The Mighty Dark Lord Fuckblade has always been my favorite because of a short instance where I joined him as his lackey, Archduke Coital-Cutlass. And finally, in the hay-day of Katawa Shoujo's popularity, ~^*4n1m3k1ng Cr15pych4n 420*^~. As rude as it seems, Shawn did, in fact, actually like Hanako as a character, while I did not, because Cat and I had a big, dumb falling-out over his fixation with this character and his youthful, self-centric attitude. In addition to those I have distinct memories of, there are also such treasures as THUNDERCOCK SOULPUNCHER, MALICE CANNONFUCK, and Dicksmash McIroncock.

Pyon's also an avid doodler, writer, and such. I'd like to include some of it. Starting with something he wrote during his employment at an Arcade:

"32 Observations About This Goddamn Arcade I'm Working At"

Actually, I just walked behind this counter for the first time in a week. I'll look at your ticket voucher shortly.

Ma'am, do not act impatient with me when you're the one barging past the wall of ten-year-old flesh eager for cheap prizes and candy demanding I get your son his prize this instant. It is a plastic trophy, not a pair of wire clippers for the bomb.

Hmm, I probably shouldn't mention bombs here. There was a big thing about that in the handbook and the required evacuation and such. So I should totally mention bombs here.

Please shriek a little louder. If you shatter my eardrums into enough pieces, I will evolve a second consciousness able to assist you in getting a goddamn Blow Pop.

The Monopoly Machine didn't give you your tickets because you were trying to tip the goddamned thing over. I wish it didn't stop at merely denying you your tickets and token, actually.

Jesus, those donuts smell delicious. I should totally get so-- wait, I can spend two more dollars and eat until I want to throw up. Not this time, donuts!

Holy shit, why don't I work where the food is? I'd never have to deal with all those kids.

As you can see, half of China, I'm one person. Please wait your turn.

You, um, see that huge machine that says "Ticket Center"? You put your tickets in there.

No, not the Receipt Slot. The one that says "Tickets Go Here".
There are only two slots, one of which is slightly more obvious than facial necrosis. You put them in that one.

This slip says twelve tickets. You cannot buy anything more than twelve-- no, Air Heads are thirty. You can't afford anything on that side of the count-- If you can't afford something that costs thirty tickets, why would you think that you can afford something that costs one-hundred fifty?

You can get four different items. Pick one or some of those. No, now that you've spent seven of your twelve tickets, the five remaining are not able to cover a purchase of twenty-five hundred tickets. Get a piece of fucking gum.

Yes, you're welcome. Don't come back.

Good, you're back. Good thing you won two tickets then ran back here screaming.

Two tickets will get you stickers. Out of these two jars. No, Blow Pops are not stickers. No, neither are Nerds Ropes. Two tickets does not mean you can get two of anything.

So you have one ticket. Why are you asking for two of anything?

Oh good, you're back again. With a whopping three tickets this time.

No, Blow Pops were twenty-five before. The prices have not been lowered. You still cannot afford them. Perhaps if you saved them instead of spending them every time you got them.

Oh, good. It's your... Guardian. Person. If he reeked any more of pot, I suspect the emergency sprinklers would be going off.

Oh, wow. I actually like this kid. He may be taking a while to decide things, but at least he isn't a fucking retard about it.

Jesus Christ, don't you ever stop? It's seven tickets. You should know what you cannot afford by now. I'll give you a hint: It's everything you ask for.

Oh, good. You've got twenty-seven tickets. Here's a goddamn Blow Pop.

YOU HAVE TWO TICKETS. WHY ARE YOU ASKING FOR ANOTHER ONE? I'm glad I gave you watermelon flavor.

Oh, my favorite demographic. Teenaged emo girls. Hmm, I wonder what that pause before you say the word "pickle" implies. You're so delightfully witty.

Actually, it isn't my fault you didn't win at a game dictated purely by chance. Please don't get mad at me.

Actually, I'll go ahead and take care of your prizes after I count the seven hundred and forty two pennies you gave me in addition to your ticket slip.

Why do these pickles either never sell at all or huge mobs rush in demanding them? Anyway, ma'am, I'll make your change in a moment, you needn't glare at me like that. There are so many other places you can go.

For the love of god, you're back again. You... Are you trying to sell me a bag of confett-- This confetti is worth five-hundred dollars? You are actually trying to sell me a bag of confetti for five-hundred dollars. You should be so thankful this counter is between us.

Hi, Captain Pothead! Here to usher your five kids out of the arcade?

Oh, those two machines didn't give you your tickets? Here are two more tokens, you probably should not play those machi-- You're playing those exact two machines again.

As you can see, it's midnight, the machines are off, and the arcade is closed. Please come back for two Jolly Ranchers tomorrow.

That one, about the twelve tickets...? You'd think that was a little kid, wouldn't you?
Old enough to be my mother.

At this point, I'd also like to share Pyon's delightful evaluation of the cult-classic, Cyberbu//y:

Pyon's a hilarious, snarky guy. He's got more snark than I can care to enumerate. You've seen his artwork - it's all pretty great. You've seen his writing - it's all pretty great. And if you'd like? You can see his short-lived blog in my subscriptions.

The Plat du Jour is Dandelion Wine. I'll tell you about it later. For now, enjoy some Hat.

Don't Stop Me Now.

I'M HAVING SUCH A GOOD TIME. I'M HAVING A BALL.

I'm feeling pretty stellar. Last night was just about THE MOST STELLAR DAY IN THE PAST TWO MONTHS OR SO, despite the general occupied trend of my past few days. It's pretty crazy, and I don't know where to begin. I think I'll begin with the weather, because that's how all small-talk works. We'll start small and work our way up.

Yesterday was sweltering. It was just HOT. There's no good word for it beyond that. Humid, stagnant, breezeless HOT. The whole day was like that, and it was nice to just parade around in sandals for a change. The heat kind of got to me though, and it held hands with my exhaustion from the night before, which ended on a kind of tense note as I was trying to resolve some anxiety Claire'd been feeling, and chose to do so in my typical confrontational, upfront, A-is-A manner. It wasn't the best way to go about things, because I'd wound up making everyone agitated, but it kind of resolved. Sort of. I think there's still some residual stuff, but I'm-...

Well, that has NO REAL BEARING on what I'm trying to say. I was up until 1:00 AM being pushy and forward, and then fixing the fact that I was pushy and forward. The fact that I usually crash at like, 10:00 PM and wake up at 5:00 really does me in, because I wound up facing the heat exhausted, and it culminated in a bad headache - my jog? I could like, feel my brain rattling in my skull. It was pretty terrible. Like PLAYING YAHTZEE WITH MY NOODLE.

I was kind of anticipating one of those hot, still evenings where it's just hot enough to be pleasant. Instead, a massive, massive torrential downpour came after an hour of still thunder and lightning that crackled around the full moon. It was pretty amazing. More amusing, I don't know what sort of event was going on but standing outside last night in itself was amusing. You see, for some reason, the apartment juxtaposed to mine?

 HAD A GREEN DAY COVER-BAND, A VERY BAD ONE, PLAYING BRAIN STEW AND A FEW LOVE BALLADS AT 11:00.

Does it stop there, Zack? Is that the end of late-night shenanigans?
Surely there's something funnier...

YOU BET YOUR ASS IT GETS BETTER!

See, once the lightning began, it began without rain, non-stop, and so bright that you could momentarily see entire spans of the city lit-up like some sort of colossal God or Alien Overlord had taken a snapshot of it with an equally colossal Polaroid camera. It was beautiful, and I wasn't the only one who thought so, because you see, there were a couple of drunken frat-boys at the end of the street, beers in hand, discussing it with AWESTRUCK STONER WONDER, which I will now quote below:

WOOOOAAAAH-...LOOK AT IT MAN. THAT WAS A MONSTER OF A THUNDER. LOOK AT IT. IT'S STILL GOING. THAT'S AMAZIN', DUDE. THAT'S FUCKIN' CHOICE. DO YOU THINK ANYONE TELLS THAT WHAT TO DO? THERE'S NO "GOVERNMENT AGENCY" THAT REGULATES THAT, BRAH. THAT SHIT'S UNTAMED. FUCKIN' MASTERPIECE, MAN.

I snrk'd harder than I'd openly snrk'd in a long time. 
I laughed like a damned hyena.

Shortly after, this torrential downpour began, at which point I donned sandals and stood out in it for a bit, and I did so with really great company on the other side of the globe doing the same and enjoying a particularly BALMY AND PLAYFUL breeze that'd kicked up. I laughed at the fact that I just emphasized balmy and playful, but it was distinctly such. 

Did a little roleplaying for the first time in a long time - I've had one of those dry-spells. I haven't really been into much ever since Onni passed away - he was kind of my go-to-guy for adventure, and nothing really felt the same without 'em. Me, and a fellow friend who used to play with him have been trying to kind of fix the weird, "Don't want to write anything," spell that was cast on us without Onni, so we've begun writing together. Last night featured a pretty great dramatic hostage situation. The captors reminded me a lot of the Patron-Minette Gang from Hugo's Les Misérables. In addition, I got to write about plum liquor. While I've heard it tastes a lot like Pedialyte, I've had a slight fascination with plum liquor ever since attempting to make my own Umeboshi, and seeing how neat it looks with little salted plums suspended in it over ice.

Plus, Characters Who Drink Liquor are cool. They always seem aloof, carefree, and intriguing.

Same thing with people who smoke anything other than cigarettes, like a pipe or cigars!

Anyways, where was I?

Crap, I don't really remember where I was going with this, so I'll end-out on a Recipe for Life:

THE AMAZIN' FUCKIN' CHOICE MASTERPIECE

 (Serves the entirety of a Green Day cover-band audience)

Ingredients:

1 full Green Day Cover-Band (rotten, lyrics coarsely chopped)
½ day Sweltering Heat.

½ day Torrential Downpour

3 Frat Boys (pickled)  
Thunder and Lightning (deveined with regulating Government Agencies removed)
1 Wonderful Person on the Other Side of the Globe

1 Moon (full)

1 bout Roleplay

1. Preheat oven to 10—³²° Kelvin, and add Sweltering Heat. When contents erupt into a firey conflagration, reduce to a low boil and add Torrential Downpour.
2. Add Green Day Cover-Band and Frat Boys. Stir in Thunder and Lightning until amusing awestruck statements and love-ballads punctuate your boil.
3. Spoon the contents of your day over your pre-admired Wonderful Person on the Other Side of the Globe, and place the full Moon on top. This should bring out many wonderful facets and unexplored yet pleasant flavors of exciting bipolarity.
4. Garnish with a sprig of Roleplay. Serve thoroughly pleased, amused, and otherwise Fuckin' Choice.

Third Time's the Concern.

I've been having nightmares, and I think they may have something to do with the perpetual state of fairly-unaddressed stress I've been operating within. On the other hand, they may be a product of legitimately unsettling things that have been waking me up - I'm not certain.

I don't recall what my first dream was, but I recall waking in one of those audible "Haah!?" fashions, where I abruptly sat-up and made a noise a whole lot like that. I recited the dream, but apparently that didn't help because I can't remember it. I'm almost certain, however, that it involved post-nuclear war living.

That's been a running factor, and was actually quite vivid and even almost fourth-wall breakingly acknowledged in my second dream.

The dream began with me acknowledging that I've been returning too often to post-war living, essentially. I was in an overgrown field of dead grass, and I was not alone. I had a small band of exactly three people with me, but I don't remember who they were or what they looked like. We approached this decrepit manor-home and we began kind of ransacking it for supplies. It was empty mind you, but some of the heavy make-shift locks and such implied that for awhile, someone had lived there. There were lots of pieces of mahogany furniture, and they were all dusty and baked by the sun or bombs. I remember going into a room with a heavy lock on it and finding out that it was a little boy's room. There were lots of toys and posters, and I think I cried. There were distinctly two computers, and we were all quite eager to take them with us to see if we could establish a connection somewhere and find out if there were other people out there, where to find them, and if the war was officially over yet.

A man - he had a beard and short hair, and was distinctly carrying a shotgun - was pacing up the interior of one of the broken hallways, and we all kind of hid. I face a doorway, and as the barrel of his shotgun passed it, I folded it into my underarm, and startled him. I quickly explained what we were doing, and that it was good to see someone else alive, and that we could kind of help provide for one another. He agreed that working as a team sounded good, and I let go of his gun. I kneeled to pick up something and he shot me, leaving me painfully aware of his intentions to take our provisions and our lives, as none of us were armed to my knowledge.

I must have lived because I recall a scene where I was running towards a collapsed shed, and bizarre facsimiles of field-mice were around me.

Today, I dreamed my apartment was full of fleshless, featureless people. It was dark, and they were around in many numbers and sometimes contorted into unexpected and unconventional positions, so I was worried in particular about being taken by surprise. I squeezed myself between a safe and a hot-water heater, because there was little to worry about but my front. I could hear them approaching, though, and I began to panic, because I wasn't able to open the safe, which was presumably full of firearms.

I awoke to the sound of the Storm Sirens going off, and what I can only call the most terrifying trainwhistle I've ever had the displeasure of hearing. I'm typically a fan of trainwhistles, especially while I'm trying to sleep. There was something I'd read about, where trainwhistles were supposed to be a sign that you'd begun to become too comfortable, and it just kind of stuck. I like to go out on jogs when the trains are out. And if the trains are out and it's raining, I'm particularly joyous.

...But this thing, it exploded like a bomb, and it was forceful, and drawn, and exceptionally low. It scared me witless.

I don't know what's causing these night-terrors, but I'm growing more and more concerned for my mental state. I sincerely hope it is just stress and that I'll be happier when it's all said and done. It's just kind of a jarring, unsettling thing in the meantime, and I don't know what to do.