I am an Interesting Person

He always somehow knows when I wake up. Whether it’s 12:30 or 7pm. He always messages me right on time. I wonder if he knows how much of a sucker I am for a good coincidence. I think that was the first thing I ever said to him. I wonder if it’s him, or me. Does he feel like he’s on my mind? Do I send out some psychic signal that hits him, and he’s just like “wow, I have to text her now?” Is my psychic scream so powerful that he hears it, or is it him that is so much more tightly woven into the Collective that he hears it?

And really, what does it matter? What does it matter if there are powerful forces at work here, if random people just have these superpowers, and these superpowers are just used for nothing better than to enhance relationships between two insignificant people, to convince a completely inconsequential girl that there’s something bigger between her and a random stranger she picked up on an information superhighway street corner?

We could be heroes

David Bowie

I’m not going to respond to his text messages while I’m writing (I broke that already). I think it messes up my flow, introduces other influences into what’s supposed to be my own thought after spending the night cleaning my own brain. Speaking of brain cleaning, I highly recommend melatonin.

I was also listening to a Hidden Brain episode, and somewhere amidst the salient noise they mentioned that paying attention to dreams and recording them actually led to more vivid dreams (I’ll find the citation with my next cup of coffee, which is what I imagined I’d do when I first designed this habit for myself). So, in this aim, I will record what I know of my dream last night, knowing that it’s so much less than I had in my mind before the boy texted me and forced me to admit to myself that I was awake <==== oh wow.

I was sitting at on the floor at a punk rock show, I believe I was wearing my navy floral skirt with lavendar tights. My friend, a man I’m mildly attracted to, or some enigmatic figure that reselmbled a conglomerate of men that I know like him, looked at me and noticed that my pantyhose had slipped down so the crotch of them was visible (don’t we all hate when pantyhose slip, I usually wear an extra thong to hold them up for that reason). I’m no longer sure of the setting, but I think that happened a few times that night.

Thinking it over, the night club was actually a house that I used to own, and was mine. Structurally, it was a cross between a house I used to own in NH, a house I have investigated buying in CT, and the Boston Park Plaza hotel. Specifically, when I went out to smoke, it was out through the entrance that resembled the Boston Park Plaza hotel, where I talked to someone who I had previously smoked with outside that hotel… and hooked up with inside that hotel, and other hotels.

I remember I was trying to better outfit one of the rooms for dancing, and I was talking to a girl who was a mix between a girl named Paula that I knew one time before while trying to outfit a space, and one of my best friends who was always down for adventures (I should text her). We were trying to think of how to make the perfect discoball. I went outside to see if there were any broken mirrors, and the yard was a mix of my yard and the neighbors yard in nh (I should see if I can buy their house) and the aforementioned CT property (I wonder if it’s still for sale). There were a whole bunch of dead saplings in burlap sacks strewn around. It looked like they had been abandoned during planting the year before (sounds like my life, I am too ambitious and never actually get anything done), some were in wheelbarrows, some leaning against the foundation, up by the driveway, etc.

I also remember that my ex was in there somewhere, or maybe I’m just assuming that he was because he always is when I think of the woods, or gardening, or anything that I actually like.

There of course was more and there always is, but I lost it. I now have two separate tears, one in each eye. OK, one and a half.

My dream from the night before.

I should tell this guy that I can’t date him. I clearly am not ready. But are we even dating. But I am dating. Someone else for almost 4 years wtf am I even doing. Besides, this guy reminds me of who I wish my ex was, and even who my ex would have wanted to be (if what he ever told me of his aspirations was true). And that is not a healthy foundation for a relationship. That I’m not even sure he wants, and I don’t even think I can have, and why the fuck does he always know to text me the minute I wake up.

And what the fuck is he going to do when he figures out what I actually do for work.

Almost everything we talk about is work related, in the grander sense. How it’s swallowed us whole, weird social studies on coworker dynamics, the higher structures of it and how it doesn’t matter. Nihilistic existentialism, making scarecrows out of suits and setting them on fire in a dying forest so that the geographic forensic team investigates and just finds a smiling straw stuffed CEO at the source of the blaze. I talk about my clients and how demanding they are and what it’s like having to discuss higher financial matters and count money in the back of your head and tally up enough to bring all accounts up to even while faking a smile and making sure that your face reflects enough interest and your mouth can regurgitate enough marketing copy timely interspersed with their personal details to keep business relationships open. And it all makes sense.

Until, it doesn’t. What am I going to do.

I think I’m going to start using the tag function to record songs that were playing while I was writing, as I never use it, and have just today decided to give up listening to the news during these exercises. I wonder if it will be interesting. Probably not, but probably.

I for some reason feel like I have to sprinkle this blog with clues as to my real identity, there’s so much that I feel like people would recognize about me. However, I know they won’t. Not only would no one who knows me ever read this, but no one who “knows” me would recognize any of those things, because they don’t really know me. I wonder what I must look like to all of them, just a mouth open with barely recognizable words coming out. Even if I wrote here verbatim what I literally just hung up the phone from saying to them, they wouldn’t put two and two together and realize that yes, this is me. I wonder what that says about them, are they idiots? Underneath that, I wonder what that says about me, and that’s so sad.

I always end my posts with a single sentence.

And then another.

One Comment Add yours

  1. Anna says:

    I kind of hate the white background photos and only downloaded a few, but it fits.

    I realized over my second cup and rereading that there are actually two men who could read this, right now, today, this hour, and think that I am talking about them. If they ever would, and they won’t, each for different reasons and probably primarily because it’s stupid.

    It occurs to me that all of my coincidences might be specially crafted… after all, I’m the one here with a knowledge of the most salient variables.

    I wonder if this is what Theologians are referring to when they talk about Intelligent design.

    If I had more time I would write essays on this, but nah.

    It doesn’t matter anyway.

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