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.
There it is, the turning point. I just wish that every interesting thing didn’t automatically have to implicate someone else. I don’t know why I feel like it does, but as I sit here and write for no one but myself (when did noone get dropped from the dictionary? I clearly remember in 5th grade being taught that this was a word) I realize that I’m the only one making that distinction.