His name was Hamoon, my story's hero. I don't

His name was Hamoon, my story's hero. I don't remember that much. I suppose he lived in a jungle near the village...now I understand. I understand all those dreams of drowning,

I see it all clearly now. Hamoon was waking up at the same time I was sleeping. One day last week I awoke in Dr. Stanley's office frozen with sweat. "Oh, God!" I exclaimed. Was I

going through menopause? Dr. Stanley smiled & patted me on the knee. "No," he replied. "You're simply psychotic. Here, this will help." He strapped me down on the table &

read the 1st 2 chapters of 'Eat Pray Love' to me while I struggled against the restraints. When I had no more strength to move he unstrapped me & bundled me onto a night flight to

Belfast. On the way he read the 1st chapters of 'Drink, Play, F@#k'. "Let's see who's right, okay?", he implored before our arrival and then bustled me into a stretch limo for a

chat with the "Arabian." The "Arabian" was lean and unshaven. But he wore Brooks Brother's oxfords and smoked Chesterfields. He leaned in close to me and grimaced. I could smell

His breath a mile away. The women gravitated towards him. This guy was nothing special, really. Just another dude at the bar. He creeped me out. Literally. I couldn't breathe well.

He didn't like that, that Manhattan was his!! He used his mind to spit into my vermont, and it was offically a mind-battle between me and the popular man at the bar!!

Suddenly a greater mind entered the game. Our minds were melted & we spent eternity enjoying ice cream while doing macrame. Beware of the one eyed man!