In Candyland everything was green and wonderful and alive, and Trent was awash in joy. He stood on a path carved of the roots of thousand year-old Money Trees, inhaling the sweet perfume of the Self-Actualization Blossoms, which, as Trent well knew, bloomed only once in a lifetime. This was his lifetime, and this was his blossoming. The perfect blue sky seemed to beam with pride upon young Trent, and yet it was raining. Raining tears of joy, tears of liquid gold, pleasantly soft and cool as they rolled down his glowing cheeks. A soft wind tousled his hair, and the unmarked, small-denomination leaves of the Money Tree rustled softly in the breeze. Trent was content.

The radio went CLICK.

(laughter)

(sound of rotors spinning, faint horn blares)

The soft rustle became a loud, grating sound as the wind intensified to a gale force. The sky darkened abruptly and the fragrant melody emitted by the blossoms became a noxious gas. Trent grasped nearby the roots of the Money Tree path, hanging on to Compound Interest for dear life as the wind threatened to carry him away. At the horizon, the face of a giant clock loomed, drawing closer, and closer. Trent realized the clock had always been there, dwelling in some sort of Candyland Underworld, waiting for its chance to rear its vile face and devour his happiness.

The radio droned on.

Candyland wavered in Trent’s vision, Green becoming Aqua becoming Royal Purple Sienna Upchuck. The clock was suddenly upon him, its hands spinning madly, eyes growing out of the sides, a hideous mouth spitting green slime everywhere. A massive white toothbrush erupted from the rapidly disintegrating surface of Candyland and began to scrub the spreading slime with great zeal. A column of angry teeth brandishing assault rifles and pockmarked with cavities marched through a copse of disintegrating Money Trees. In the corner of his waking mind, Trent noted that he hadn’t flossed in at least twelve years, five months, and four days.

I awaken. I dress. Thinking.

There is torture.

And then, there is torture.

The first kind you hear about on the news, human-rights violations and political squabble-brand torture, as in, "They tortured the thief until he told them where he hid the money he stole from the governor’s fat, stupid, ugly, wife." The second kind you hear about all the time, but it’s never called torture. It’s the disaster that you caused, the romance you screwed up, and the schedule you refuse to adhere to. A lot of people complain about getting up early. They’d rather sleep in, and dream about sex, or the perfect interview, falling out of the sky, their dead relatives, stupid shit like that.

It doesn’t make any difference to me—awake, asleep. I figure I’m doomed either way. That’s fine. I don’t think about it. I don’t care about it. I don’t worry about it.

I try very hard not to worry about anything. The best way to accomplish this is to expose oneself to every possible disaster until each becomes an unreality, an impersonal event. Television is great for this. The Internet is even better. Trust me. If I’m ever about to be decapitated, that’s nothing.

Whatever. Get it over with. Hurry up. Everybody’s waiting. Torture me. I’m enlightened. Fuck you.

I don’t care what other people say or do, as long as they’re saying something, doing something. Build a house, paint a portrait, blow glass, rob a bank, get high, slash your wrists, start a war.

None of it matters. Accept that and nobody can ever hurt you.

Coffee. Suitcase. Suit. Tie. Keys, Car, Go.

I get a job in the corporate world and I get a promotion and an office with a view and people ask me, how did I do it. I tell them, honestly, I don’t know.

They never believe me.

So here’s how I did it. I lied. I cheated. I stole. I hurt. I may have killed. I don’t know. Okay? Get over it. I have work to do.

There are only eighty-five shining glass-and-steel floors in the building where I work, making it a stunted giant under all the great hundred-plus spires and towers. The effect is something like the house Arthur Miller’s salesman lived in. By itself, it’s a nice place. But now you’re damn lucky to see the sun before noon or after two.

I want out of here. Everybody goes off somewhere and soon all you can do is go somewhere or stay exactly where you are forever. These reinforced walls make my 9-to-5 sepulchre, a pestilential tomb in which I steadily, even happily, rot. Decay is slow so as to be unnoticed, unnoticed until an early morning when, somewhere between consciousness and a waking dream, you finally know that you’ve been dying the whole time you were living. You wake up one morning and say, "what?" And they’re all gone, your dreams. That last one, you’ll never forget, but it’s the last one.

I see this everywhere. In middle-aged men who never grew out of their role as high-school football hero. In welfare-bound mothers. In the children of abusive parents. They didn’t do anything wrong, they aren’t evil, they aren’t even bad! They’re just living in two worlds. Half the time they can forget, through fantasy or chemical influence, and half the time they’re just miserable. Miserable because they want to forget that last dream. And can’t.

When I was a kid I wanted to be a writer. I thought that by channeling and inventing the desires of other people, fictional and otherwise, I could better understand my own. So I read a lot and wrote a lot of semi-intelligent prose about how people should follow their dreams and sacrifice everything, because hey, life is short and fame and glory are forever. Ten out of ten for writing what people want to hear, but minus several billion for ignoring reality. If you want to live in dreams, you’d better do it completely. Don’t be an inspirational speaker. Be a fucking lunatic. Declare yourself Emperor of the World. Train yourself to be an expert knight and joust with people on the highway. Something, anything! Just don’t be half-assed about it.

The elevator opens and I get out and go into the office. Cheryl, the receptionist, smiles and asks Hi Trent how is it going. I say fine, thanks. She says that’s good to hear. I stand there and smile nervously for a second before excusing myself to my office. I think Cheryl and I have a fair degree of sexual tension, and she’s not unattractive, but I’m not completely sure, so I just try and ignore it.