The trouble with having a beautiful beard

The heat is unforgiving, vengeful even. Almost like i had been cheating on it with the winter and now its getting back at me by open flame grilling me to a fine crisp! And where in the world am i? And whats with all this desert sand? And why is the right side of my chest so... oh, yeah.

I can not believe that crazy bitch stabbed me.

"You had it coming, reverend," this Asian hippie who must have been too young for any of the revolutions just pops up besides me, stroking his gloriously long beard. How i envy that beard.

"Who the hell are you and why are you talking to me?" Damn him for having such a glorious beard.

"Walk with me, reverend, i have the answers."

"Why would you think i'm a reverend?" I laugh at the idiot with the majestic man hair. "I hardly believe in God."

"Ah hah! So you DO believe in God but just not all the time."

"No, i believe in God all the time, but just not a lot. And quit stroking your magnificent lion's mane of manliness!"

"Sorry, rev., force of habit." He moves his hand to his chest hair. "Come, sit with me. Let us enjoy this Pete Sampras tennis match together."

Pete Sam-.... what the hell is he talking about? We're in the middle of the desert being baked by the most paranoid sun and there's Pete Sampras playing the most unspectacular tennis game of his life!

"Wait, what the fuck is Pistol Pete...oh, i see.... this is a dream, isnt it?"

"A lucid dream, actually." Even his arms are hairy. "You're in a coma, reverend."

That bitch! That crazy bitch put me in a coma!! Stupid cherries! "So who are you supposed to be?"

"I am your Qi. I am the mental projection of your spiritual life force and this monotonous tennis match in the middle of the scorching desert is your nirvana."

"Right, right.... and all that means what exactly?"

He's back to stroking his marvellous face carpet. "I dont really know."

"You dont know? So when you told me to follow you claiming you had all the answers, really you had nothing at all and just wanted to sit down?"

"Precisely."

""Precisely.""

So we sit there in silence, watching Pete Sampras play Pete Sampras in the least eventful game of tennis ever played out in a coma induced delusion.

"Actually this doesnt count as a delusion, " the Asian hippie interjects, "its a lucid dream. Lucid... dream."

We sit there, stroking our beards... well he's stroking his and i'm drawing outlines of where mine should grow if i'm ever able to wake up from this coma. After a while, i barely feel the heat of the sun and it gets almost interesting to watch the world's best tennis player fail to beat himself. I'm starting to enjoy my own little Nirvana.

"You know you cant hide here forever."

"Shut up, Chewbacca."

"My name's Leonard."

"Really? My Qi is an Asian hippie named Leonard?"

"Right go ahead and focus on that like thats the wierdest thing going on here!"

He's so right i want to punch him. "Okay so what am i supposed to do?"

"I cant tell you what to do...wait, wait, wait... i cant tell you what to do but i can tell you why you got here."

"I'm here because a crazy bitch plunged a knife into my chest. Not exactly the biggest mystery there, Lenny."

"No, reverend, that is the how. But the why.... you see, even though your mind is convinced that the she-woman whose knife betrayed your ribs is the devil incarnate, the reality is you are here because your heart believes you are to blame and that you got what you deserved. These two ides of your psyche could not reconcile that fact."

I cant look at him. The beautifully bearded bastard is right and i cant bare to look upon him in his rightness. But he cant be right, can he? I mean SHE stabbed me, right? I'M THE VICTIM HERE!! This fool doesnt know what he's talking about!

"You know something, mr. fancy bea-...." But he's gone. Its just me, my nirvana and my two Samprases, biting the dust in the desert.