I'm happy, it's sunny, and I'm riding a unicycle on a suburban street.

It's not Coloma Court, the same street I grew up on, but it's familiar. Denver isn't the street's name, but it's the first name that comes to mind, and it seems to fit.

I am peddling very leisurely. The street is empty of people and cars. It goes uphill a little and gently veers to the right near the slope's crest. There are houses lining both sides of the street and the street's only sidewalk is to the left. Suddenly, under the unicycle's own volition, I begin to float to the left just as gently as the street veers right.

My movement doesn't seem altogether natural. I realize I don't really know how to ride a unicycle, but this doesn't alarm me because, deep down, I feel comfortable, carefree, and safe.

This is the most relaxed I've felt for awhile. And I'm still floating to the left side of the street at a comfortable rate of speed.

Then, the unicycle hops up onto the sidewalk's lip, maintaining the same degree of floating turn. I can feel that ugly vein on the side of my temple begin to bulge. My chest becomes a pulsating chamber filling with super-heated helium gas. The gas pushes up into the back of my throat.

My balls shrink.

We plow through thorny rose bushes and now it feels like I'm being attacked by a thousand gnomes with metal leaf rakes. We are going faster and faster and begin to rip through a house's driveway, then a yard completely covered by lava rock, and then I fall--the unicycle drops from under me.

I land on grey cement. No blood; I'm unhurt. I look up to see a group of three adolescent boys hanging out in a garage. They don't say anything to me. They stare.

One of the oldest boys is sitting on a gray upholstered bench seat taken out of Dodge Caravan. He has a black AC/DC shirt on, long hair, and a studded black leather bracelet on his right wrist. He raises his right hand up to his mouth and takes a long drag from a cigarette. As he does this, I recognize they know they are cooler than me. I hear the Whitestripes playing on their stereo. I want to be as cool as they are, so I begin to formulate a question in my head: What music should I be listening to? I really want to ask them this question. What does a cool person listen to besides the Whitestripes? Once I know how to be cool, after I know what I need to listen to, what to wear, how to smoke, how to hang out, then I can reach enlightenment.

Before the question even reaches my tongue , it is answered by someone in the darkness speaking broken English. It's blurry, but I can make out a short dark man at the front of the bus. "Off, off!" he says waving a hand towards the door. I pick up my backpack and sleepily stumble to the front of the bus. I hit my head, hard, on a T.V., or something made of very durable plastic. I hear quiet snickers nearby, but I can't make out the images of the people making them.

I walk towards the only light I can see. Krista is off in the distance standing in a line with her passport. I see writing everywhere and I instantly think of a can of Redbull.

This must be Thailand.