i keep having the weirdest goddamned dreams. i keep waking up with a headache, in a cold sweat, because i spent half the night tormented by the succession of images, ideas, emotions, and sensations that occur involuntarily in my mind and prominently feature a gentleman who stopped fucking me almost six months ago. every single night, as i lay me down to sleep, the minute my eyes close my head fills with weird, confusing pictures and sounds. i wish they were sex dreams. sex dreams i could totally fucking handle, but these are another animal entirely. they're, like, relationship dreams? i don't even know how to classify them, but i wake up feeling uncomfortable and exhausted every goddamned morning. the most recent involved my most recent filling his bedroom with dozens and dozens and dozens of bottles of garnier fructis shampoo (i can't be sure of the brand, but the bottles were kelly green and my dreambrain thought the room smelled soapy and fresh) and presenting them to me as a gift. i walked into his real house and up his real stairs, excited at the promise of a "really amazing surprise," said hello to his real dog, and then he pushed his real door open and stood back smiling in anticipation of my reaction. but all i could think was, "has this dude really not ever noticed that i use aveda scalp benefits?!" and then i woke up with the sadz. AND AN ITCHY SCALP.
am i out of my motherfucking mind? in dreams past he has: helped me untie a tricky shoelace (wtf?), brought me breakfast in bed that was really just an adorable bowl of live kittens who crawled all over me, inexplicably moved a bunch of heavy furniture that i didn't ask for into the middle of my apartment, asked me to videotape him synchronized swimming (not a real thing he ever did), and then this glut of moderately-priced hair detergent. WHO IN THE FUCK DREAMS ABOUT BULK PURCHASING SHAMPOO? here's what the internet says about that: to see or use shampoo in your dream indicates that you need clear out your old attitudes and old ways of thinking. you may also need to take a different approach toward some situation or relationship. alternatively, shampoo represents self-growth and you desire to present a new image of yourself to others. i can live with that, i suppose. i have been eating more.
next i searched "dude who wouldn't let you call him your boyfriend and went on vacation with another broad while banging you clears sam's club stock of all available bottles of pert plus on your behalf" and was told: sorry, there are no matches for your request. what the shit?! after that, i typed "ex lover is suspiciously concerned about my scalp care" to which dreammoods.com replied: for best results, narrow your search request to one or two words. fine then. YOU WIN, INTERNET. "ex boyfriend" (not my words, ex-romantic partner!) yielded these beauties, among others:
-if your ex-boyfriend hurts or ignores you, then the dream is telling you to move on with your life and stop thinking about your ex. what if he gets me kittens and antique hutches? should i really move on from a queen anne armoire?!
-to dream that you are kidnapped by your ex-boyfriend suggests that your ex still has some sort of emotional hold on you. what if he's just holding my breakfast emotionally hostage?
-to dream that you are being massaged by your ex-boyfriend suggests that you need to let go of some of that defensiveness that you have been putting forth as a result of a past relationship. SCALP MASSAGE.
-if you dream that your ex-boyfriend is dressed in a suit at a hospital, then it suggests that you have come to terms with that relationship and have completed the healing process. does a swim suit at my local YMCA count?
my diagnosis: LADYCRAZY. this is just like the time webmd correctly informed me that i had testicular cancer! thanks, al gore!
i don’t believe in all that bullshit. all that letting you feel like you’re the only batshit crazy idiot bullshit. if you and i are going to claw our way out of the miserable death pit that is life on planet earth then we are going to have to be honest with each other about the fucked up shit we are going through and help each other the fuck out. we are going to have to be honest about the dreams we can't stop having, like the one in which dude drove me to michigan on the handlebars of a bicycle. my life has no room for bitches who lie and pretend they have never eaten the entire contents of their freezers in an afternoon after getting text-dumped IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING NIGHT. that’s right, kittens, this one time i woke up to less than 160 characters of relationship finality, and then i spent the next hour disgustingly snotcrying into a gin and tonic while defrosting a pound of kielbasa with a hair dryer because i am too lazy to go get a microwave. then i ate it while listening to lauryn hill's song "ex-factor" on repeat on the stereo. for three straight days. i don’t just neatly put myself back together and seamlessly move on to the next thing, i fucking panic that i have to find some new motherfucker to hesitantly show my weird moles to. i hyperventilate at the thought of re-opening my match dot fucking com. my palms sweat at the thought of declining your invitation to set me up with your cardigan-wearing uncle who makes those wet mouth sounds that make me want to vomit. i stress eat while wondering if anyone else anywhere ever is going to find me physically attractive ever again hideous beast OH MY GOSH.
but we need to figure out what the threshold for clinical insanity is. when does preoccupation become fixation become obsession? at what point is this no longer a thing we can discuss over drinks and should instead unload onto a goddamned therapist? like, how much crying is too much? when do you have to stop detailing the same two dates and fourteen texts over and over again to your friends? where is the line between a healthy amount of polish sausage and so much stuffed pork that an authority needs to be called?! WE NEED REAL LIFE GRIEF RULES, FRIENDS. i hung out with a friend last weekend who spent the entire time watching videos this broad he dated for approximately five minutes posted online. i mean, for hours. that shit ain't healthy, son.
and i don't fucking judge anybody else, because real examples of my brokenhearted crazy ready set go: one of my exes left a canister of foot powder in my bathroom, and i used to sniff that shit when i was sad; i once scrolled through the entire twitter feed of a dude who stopped talking to me and read all of his @tweets even though the shit made no fucking sense to me whatsoever; i have a mixtape a girl made me that i still listen to at least once a week; so many pictures buried in random dresser drawers, so many old birthday cards and shit, so much reading of them when i am bummed to make my tortureporn complete; facebook stalking, which seems normal but let's talk about hours wasted; much sullen ani difranco listening; sitting outside a dude's house in my car (two different people, years apart) waiting to see god knows what; sleeping with shirts that don't belong to me, holding on to those shirts (and, once, a pair of ratty boxers) for way too long. right this very second there is a bottle of soap on my kitchen counter that is the same brand and scent introduced to my life by someone whose number has long since been deleted from my phone. LADYCRAZY.
i don't know anything. i am not a professional trained to deal with psychological problems. but i am a raving fucking lunatic currently possessed by dreams of eating a sensible lunch with a handsome ex-whateverwewerecalling it. i'm not kidding. one of the dreams involved nine pounds of salad and steamed vegetables from the whole foods hot bar. something is wrong with me.
1 clean your shit up. that's when i first start thinking i might be circling the shame drain, when i look at the mountain of recycling piled in the corner that threatens to topple over and maim the cat every time she skitters past it. when there is laundry to do and mail to sort and dishes to wash? do that shit! organize your spice drawer! sharpen your cutlery! alphabetize your dvds! take the dry cleaning in! chop up all that fruit you wanted to make into smoothies! pretend to get your fucking shit together! use those salty tears to melt the soap scum on your shower wall, grrrrrrrl. PUT THAT RAGE TO USE.
2 find a goddamned anthem. "enough" by tweet is my current jam. no one knows that you're listening to the same goddamned song while you are shivering at the bus stop, hooker. find yourself a song with a positive ladymessage and or a negative lovemessage (pick your poison) and play it as much as you need to. i'ma make us a mix. keep thine eyes peeled.*
3 take down your okcupid, damageface. i know, you want to get over someone by getting under someone else. and that would be cool if it actually fucking worked. IT DON'T, THO. and then you feel worse and internet rejected and convinced that your only future prospects are men who look like your grandfather. give your vagina (and your brain, feelings, heart, and every other fucking thing) a goddamned break for a minute.
4 unfriend him/her. i learned this one the hard way. because i thought i was cool, bro. i thought my skin was thick enough to handle it. so what if i check in at fancy places solely good in the hopes that not only will he notice that check-in (he will not) he will also writhe in jealousy that he is not in my company (he doesn't care)? you know who cares that you changed your profile picture twelve times and the latest one features you wrapped seductively around your straightest-looking gay friend? everyone but that motherfucking dude. and they're hip to your game, son. he's not getting those subliminal messages you're putting in your statuses because he doesn't give a shit. and now all your imaginary internet friends know that you can't handle getting the boot without a public meltdown. stop sharing those dumb pictures with the motivational catchphrases on them and BLOCK THAT ASSHOLE ALREADY.
5 work on yourself. read a book, get on the treadmill, wear red lipstick, eat a cheeseburger because you spent the last eight months pretending to be a vegetarian because your ex-girlfriend worked for peta, whatever the fuck you gotta do to full better. watch marathons of "girls" or "sex and the city" or "felicity" or whatever is appropriate for your age demographic. exorcize the demon of that ladycrazy out of your body. make all your friends tell you why you're awesome. write a list of everything about you that totally fucking rules. mantra it up. jog in place. bang your fists on your tits and scream like a maniac. read some self-help books and take a motherfucking yoga class. also, it helps to laugh.
it always helps to laugh. AND TO JAM.
*here is that playlist i promised earlier: http://open.spotify.com/user/122933388/playlist/4nD2rtvrdnV3Z8Pd87a4ia