The story is complicated, and I’m not sure I even want to make it make sense for you (yes you, random clickhole casualty). I wasn’t even going to touch this name, I’ve spent years avoiding this name despite how incredibly common it is.
I feel like a deflated balloon today. Like I’m giving up on something, like I’m surrendering to something. Probably work. Probably just work, it’s always just work. And the fact that I woke up too late to do anything that I want to do, although that is certainly not true. As I reinflate, I realize that it was kind of nice to have the pressure off for a minute, just a minute ago, when I wasn’t trying to do anything. Now I feel the catches, like a balloon trying to inflate amidst a tangle of tree branches. Or more accurately, like my lungs trying to inflate amidst broken and bent ribs.
I just realized that I don’t want to sleep with the boy’s friend, at all. I mean, kind of, but that would definitely be the kind of affair that wouldn’t last past the relationship it destroyed. I’d just be sitting there wondering the whole time if it was worth wrecking things with the boy just to get his friend’s dick, knowing full well that it wasn’t… just like he’d be doing if he fucked the beached whale. Trying to pretend that it was all worth it, so he didn’t feel like such a fool, pulling out all the stops and diving headlong into one of the worst ideas he’s ever had, just to try and justify ruining the best thing he’s ever had…
Last night I dreamed that I lost my phone, met Tom Brady, was graduating from my first college, moved down to new york (actually a dream version of Long Island that I have dreamed of before), moved back, broke up with my last boyfriend on the LIRR, basically my whole adult life in a jumble. And My ex didn’t appear at all.
Suddenly, I feel like the dream was a summary of my entire life at that house I sold. Smoking outside the bar with my incredibly normal friends, carrying a floppy purse filled with cash, overhearing awesome deals, while some sketchy man (my ex) keeps trying to steal from me and tell me it was an accident. And then letting him slide just so that it doesn’t interrupt my incredibly mundane day any more than it already has.
It occurs to me that I use the same set of pronouns to describe my ex and the boy. Should I be fine with that, just like I was fine with all the abuse from my ex… the hand crawls up to cradle the back of my head, thumb pressed up under my jaw, the heel of the palm in the nape of my neck, fingers fanned from there. He had one forearm pressed against my neck, the other hand keeping my head from the floor. I put my arms out and gave up. He said he saw me disengage, and it was terrifying.
I hate the point in planning where it changes from “I want to do this” to “I know that I will regret not doing this” and that is pretty much where everything goes with him. It was the same with my ex, and I think it’s been the same with other people in my life as well, maybe my brother?
What a coincidence it would be if I expressed my dismay at required physical signatures, and had to meet my ex tonight. Outside, at a restaurant, I can meet him at the fence. I’m sure he’ll show up dirty, with ripped clothes – he dresses like a fucking slob in ways that must indicate an underlying mental condition – and I’ll graciously stand up from my glass table and full glass of wine, remove a folder from my purse, furnish a pen, and have the entire town (it’s a hilltop restaurant) watch me free myself from that ragged ass street urchin.
There is something to think about there – while a lot of my baggage is clearly mine, and I have talked about a lot of it, a lot of the baggage was his, and now I can be rid of it. That’s actually wonderful news! Speaking of, I dreamed of his sister last night, one of them, the craziest one, although I’m pretty sure he’s now holding the title for the psycho of the family.
Last night, I dreamed we were at an orgy and he freaked out. He freaked out in a calm controlled way, meaning that he disappeared to the bar and never came back, avoiding me the entire night. Of course, the orgy wasn’t that much fun anyway, I had more been putting on a show for him so that he would think that I was interesting.
I just looked into my coffee cup and was disappointed that there was still coffee in there, actually disappointed. Which is awful because today, this is actually a good cup of coffee (yes I tried the needlessly bougie Starbucks Blonde, and yes, this is one of the only appropriate uses for the word bougie that I know of, don’t get me started on the false virtuosity of capitalism 2.0) and I should be relishing it rather than just hoping it will end so that I can go smoke.