The first thing I remember from the dream was sitting with an older couple.

They were probably late 50’s and a bit overweight. I was finishing up helping them pick out fish—gouramis—but instead of a pet store we were in some kind of administrative building, and this task seemed like a more serious matter, like a bank loan or couples therapy.

We went to sit down at a window, and when I looked out at the lawn I saw two large gouramis swimming in the air. In my dream this was normal. They had rainbow spots on them. Not cartoon rainbow, but beautiful iridescence.

I said something like “Oh wait! Before you decide, there are those ones too! And they have rainbow spots on them!” The woman then said something like, “Oh no, I don’t think so. We’re trying to keep this relatively conservative.” When she said this she looked with obvious distaste at my rainbow bracelet. “We’re from Utah after all.”

In my dream this meant they were anti-gay (I have no idea what this had to do with Utah) and I was shocked. In the dream I knew this couple would not be using my services again because of my sexual orientation. The way the woman was looking at me said, “How disgusting.” I was speechless and hurt. I felt small.

The scene then changed to a lunchroom full of kids where a blonde drag queen who looked a bit like Hedwig was doing a gaudy song and dance number. Luckily the lunchroom was clearly equipped for such things, as there were disco lights built into the ceiling and glitter cannons in the walls.

This didn’t cheer me up as much as it should have.

I trudged up the glass staircase in the middle of the room and at the top was a guy, who in my dream I knew to be a young history teacher, sitting with a beer and a bong. I looked at him relieved and said I could really use a hug. He gave me a very genuine hug and I started to feel better, but then he was being pulled away.

Then I woke up and showered.

Every year for Halloween I find some funky dress in Salvation Army, rip it up, and bloody the living hell out of it.  

Bam. Zombie.

This year I saw this very form-fitting, figure-flattering black dress, and decided it would make the PERFECT French maid outfit. I also got an old ratty white pillowcase, some tall black heels, and an old white leather purse. When I went home that weekend, I told my mother that I was going to be a French maid for Halloween.

She looked at me disappointed.

Almost sad, and said,

“Oh but honey… you’re a dead girl.”

I have never received a greater compliment in my life.

______________________________________________________________________

Knowing I hadn’t seen my shrink in a year, I probably shouldn’t have gotten trashed the night before the appointment.

            I wake up on a friend’s lumpy couch with a pounding headache and the realization that the only thing I have to wear is my slutty dress and beer-stained stilettos from the night before. This isn’t the best way to start a visit to go tell a professional lie detector that my life is on track.

            But isn’t this exactly why I’m going?

            The fact that even when I know there’s something incredibly important that I need to do, I somehow manage to make the worst possible decisions. Somehow, “I need to go to bed early tonight because I have an important appointment tomorrow morning to slow down the decay of my sanity,” turns into, “Let’s go get shit-faced with a bunch of people and pass out on their couch.” Or, “I should do my homework now,” somehow turns into, “I should take a five-hour nap in the middle of the afternoon and then spend the rest of the night rearranging my houseplants.” And for some reason I won’t change.

            In the elevator on the way to my shrink’s third-floor office, I realize that it looks exactly the same as it did a year ago. I remember once, on a bleak overcast day, finding a tiny amber bottle in here while leaving her office. The bottle had read in big bold letters: NITROGLYCERIN, and all I could think at the time was that someone somewhere was collapsing in a dirty vestibule with chest pains only to find a whole lot of nothing in their breast pocket. A fallen comrade. It’ll be quick, buddy, don’t worry. You may be in pain for a minute or so, but after those last couple seconds you’ll be in a hell of a lot less pain than anyone else in town. Lucky bastard. I had felt the little pills, the little sublingual soldiers in the bottle in my hand, wince at this harsh prospect. Poor guys. I could never handle that responsibility. I left the tiny bottle propped on the railing against the wall for someone else to find.

            Walking down the hall I wonder how many times I’ve made this trek before. I wonder what I was wearing every time. Certainly nothing like I’ve donned today. I look like I’m going out for a night in Vegas. I probably have “raccoon eyes” as my mother would say. I always have raccoon eyes. I’m always waking up late somewhere that I didn’t intend to fall asleep. Unshowered, groggy and disappointed with my drastic lack of motivation to do anything right in life. This outfit screams that.

            I pass by the door that reads “Ishimura Acupuncture Therapy.” I’ve always wondered if acupuncture could help kill my bad brain. That’s what I call it. My “Bad Brain.” I have a plethora of mental problems, don’t get me wrong. And they all have names that pretentious faux-sympathetic doctors have coined at some point, but the best way to describe to people what’s wrong with me is to say that I have two brains. A Good Brain and a Bad Brain. Kind of like a split personality thing, but I have both personalities running around at the same time.

            I don’t hear voices. I hear voice.

            Just the one.

            But it’s a real asshole.

___________________________________________________________

When I enter any place, no one knows what I am. They

say, “Follow these simple rules. Baby, they’re so easy. Baby,

everything’s gonna be okay. And things will change. You’ll

see. You’ll see.” And when I agree with conviction, I mean it. I do

see how simple things should be. I have every intention of

being a good kid. But I can’t do it, guys. Come on. I only have

twelve souls. I’m a crazy. Do you know what this means? It

means give me the meaning of life and an “Idiot’s Guide

to Success,” and I’ll give back to you disappointment,

and tears, and a sack of dead kittens. I only succeed in killing

people. I’ll amaze you with how well I can do things

poorly. And listen. It’s not because I lack the ability. I just

have this sort of worst-possible-decision-making-autopilot-mode

that’s been engaged for about two-point-five years.

How do you put a stop to something like that?

You can’t help me.

And you know it.

________________________________________________________________

In a few of the bags of whole walnuts at The Grocery Store,

There is one walnut, normal on the outside,

Where the nuts inside look like shriveled, little old men.

If you listen,

You can hear a quiet, general sort of muttering, circling about the walnut area.

A white noise, made of all of the muddled voices of the little old men,

Who sit scattered amongst the normal, plump mutes.

Inside their shells, each pair sits hunched over a chessboard,

One contemplates his next move,

While the other sits complaining about the people that speed by.

Not many people come to The Grocery Store to buy whole walnuts.

The walnuts grumble and mutter about various topics.

About Hooligans.

The Weather.

Kids these days with their Devil’s Music.

Terrible Parenting.

Whatever topics there are to complain about.

Small talk, you know.

But no one notices.

All of the business women trying to be housewives

Talking on their bluetooth headsets,

Unaware that the baby’s got the car keys in his mouth.

All of the dad’s with grocery lists.

And the teenagers preparing for a My-Parents-Are-In-Cabo Party.

They’re all oblivious to the Symphony.

Too busy with life, stress, work and dinner.

Too busy gossiping about what’s-her-face’s affair,

Or so-and-so’s hideous new hybrid car.

They have no time to listen to the huffy mutterings of disgruntled walnuts.

It’s a shame, really. 

Do you see it?

Nevermind.

I fooled you.

I fooled you into thinking I was kidding.

So you can feel safe.

And so we don’t have to face it.

It’s there. Always.

We know it’s not gonna happen.

Not the way we want it to.

Because you, darling, are a fuck-up.

And I’m a crazy bitch.

You know I’m going to read into every tiny thing you do.

And thinks it’s about me.

And let it crawl and fester under my fingernails.

And I know that you have no self-control.

And that you’re impulsive.

And that you make girls fall in love with you, and then you kill them.

If I trust you, you’ll put it in a box.

You’ll spray paint it black.

And you’ll prick your finger to seal it.

And you’ll drop it in the trashcan.

(The one outside the church with the fire in it).

And watch it burn.

And say, “Oh… Oh it would have happened eventually anyway.”

And if you make me a promise, you know I’ll keep it in an envelope under my skin.

You know it’ll kill me when you break it.

And you’ll break it.

No doubt.

And you can play the villain.

And I can cry and feel like a sad, pretty girl in a movie.

The one that everyone feels for.

The one that everyone has to love.

And you can feel like the bad guy.

The one everyone loves to hate.

The one everyone wants to fuck.

We love our roles.

You love to be hated.

I love to be loved.

Because you, Jess, are a fuck-up.

And I’m a crazy bitch.

But maybe some day we’ll be our titles in a different way.

The way an alcoholic who’s been sober for years still calls himself an alcoholic.

You’ll still be a fuck-up.

I’ll still be a crazy bitch.

But maybe that day we’ll go get our 40-year chips.

And we’ll have fought.

And we’ll have won.

_____________________________________________________________

When I wrote this ^^ I had no idea that it would actually come true. We both really did change. Crazy. 

So here we are.

Me and the old people in the Everglades.

It was a good choice.

I’ve always loved nature and reptiles and shit,

so when I visited my grandparents in Florida in January,

of course they’d take me to the Everglades.

We saw a bunch of alligators.

Not crocodiles.

Don’t call them that.

On our way back to the car we saw a snake sunning itself on the path.

Pretty big, about three feet.

Grandma freaked, as usual.

Irrational fear, paranoia, etc.

            I said something like,

                        “Don’t-worry-I-was-watching-Man-vs.-Wild

                        and-he-said-that-none-of-the-snakes-in-the-Everglades

                        are-venomous-I’m-gonna-see-if-I-can-pick-him-up!”

(In reality that episode had said that none of the frogs in the Everglades are poisonous).

(As in, you can eat them to survive).

(As in I remembered wrong).

Grandma peaced.

She was not going to be made to watch a snake move in that creepy snake way.

I was full of adrenaline.

I picked up a stick to gently pin his head,

but when I went to pin him, he struck at the stick with impressive force and aggression, and streaked away through the tall grasses.

Bummer.

Later, in the gift shop, I saw a perfect replica of the same snake.

It was labeled “Cottonmouth.”

What do you dream about?

I dream about a haunted house full of  hidden passage ways.

And there’s something horribly wrong and disturbed,

I lift the bronze candlestick to open the door behind the bookcase.

The room behind is full of trinkets.

What do you dream about?

I dream about when aliens come to my house.

They shoot my dad in the stomach with some sort of ray gun,

And the wound looks like a cannon ball hole

With a film like saran wrap covering both sides so I can look through.

I go to touch it but the thin membrane breaks,

And he dies.

What do you dream about?

I dream about being in preschool.

And I keep accidentally giving birth to dinosaurs,

From between my shoulderblades.

It’s like they just grow right out of me like jerk-y claymation.

They’re tiny T-Rex’s and they run around terrorizing my classmates.

It’s incredibly embarrassing.

What do you dream about?

I dream about a funhouse run by wolves.

The atrium is huge.

And in it, on a bench, the wolves cut off my arms with chainsaws.

I can feel it but it just feels sting-y and cold.

Not too bad.

What do you dream about?

I dream about being eaten from the legs up,

By a goose wearing a bonnet and reading glasses.

She has a napkin in her lap,

And a fork and knife,

And a glass of wine.

I’m laid out on the table and we’re talking.

My body below the waist seems to be comprised of chopped up peppers and onions.

I try to yell for help through the window,

To the characters outside picking cinnamon sticks from the tree.

They don’t hear me.

The goose asks me if I would like to try a bite of me.

I say that I would.

I turn out to be delicious.

What do you dream about?

Night.

            Night is better.

            I’ve always been the weirdo of my immediate family. My mom, dad, and sister are what society considers ‘normal’ people. They ‘wake up’ at six AM without complaint, go about their day complacently doing the things they are ‘supposed’ to do, and eventually go to bed at a ‘reasonable’ hour, like nine or ten PM, all the while never actually waking up.

            At nine or ten PM, when they’re safe in bed, is when I can breathe again. I can change the TV channel from the news or Everybody Loves Raymond to Tanked, or Bizarre E.R., or a guilty pleasure like True Blood. I can shed my shirt and long pants to hang out in my tank top and boxers. Daytime can be so stifling and sleepy, making zombies of the people going about their days. But when the moon is out—or the clouds or stars—I feel like I can breathe. The grass is cool, or the snow is crunching. The air is fresh and feels like cold water instead of blankets on my body.

            Try this experiment. Get in a car with two trusted friends and drive. Try this on a clear day, and again on a clear night. Find a long, empty road, and make sure you’re in the back seat. Once you get going, open your window and climb out so that you are sitting on the windowsill with your legs anchored in the car and your torso outside. Fly.

            In the day it will be fun; you’ll come back into the car after your flight and say, “That was cool, I guess,” your hair feeling like damp straw from the wind and your skin feeling greasy from the warm air. At night, as soon as you leave the car, your heart rate will skyrocket. You’ll feel like you’ve just plunged into deliciously icy water. Your eyes will widen and you’ll start taking big gulps of a kind of air you’ve never breathed before. You’ll feel like you’re bathing in liquid magic. You’ll feel like someone’s been keeping a secret from you for a long time, and that secret is that you are sometimes the only human that exists in the world. It’s just you and the trees, and you’re alive. You’ll begrudgingly climb back inside the car and notice your hair will feel silkier, and your skin will feel dry and smooth. You’ll feel awake for the first time in years, and you’ll feel almost guilty that you don’t always exist this much.

            Go home and walk around alone in the grass. Lay in it and breathe.

            Congratulations, you’re alive.

            And welcome to the night.

When you were young and bedtime came they’d send you off to sleep,