[i]
DREAM: I’m Willy Wonka. I hear the siren wail, which means I’ve been called for help. I half to climb up a ladder and slip down an intricate system of slides. It’s a tight fit but I’m familiar with the method. As soon as I come out the bottom I’ve entered another realm. Floating Styrofoam heads with eyes painted on approach me with hostile intent. I point with my index finger using an invisible force to shove them away. I run and jump high above the hall to continue my motion towards the group that called me. A regular looking man chases after me with long outstretched arms like the action figure, Stretch Armstrong. It’s difficult to escape his grasp. I keep running and jumping...
Waking up surprisingly late. 1:50 p.m. I guess the extra rest is needed for my sickly body.
Hot Cream of Wheat with Brown Sugar, Flax Seed, and Coconut Milk. Orange Juice. Zinc (50 mg) and Ibuprofen.
Cleaning and doing chores around the house.
Grilled Cheese with Tomato. Multi Grain Tortilla Chips with Fresh Guacamole. Honey Green Tea.
Watching Internal Affairs (1990).
I decide to go through my closet and drawers stuffed full of clothes—condensing—donating.
Exercising and doing ab-rolls. Dancing.
Making dinner, then bringing it over to Margot’s.
The other day she bought the director’s cut of Watchmen (2009) at Five Below for only five bucks. We put that on while I eat Black Beans and Rice with Onions, Broccoli, Kale, Green Peppers, and Mushrooms.
...
I brought over a bottle of white wine that’s been stashed in my room since the 1623 days. I pour us glasses and offer a toast...
Me: “To our love.”
[Haha]
That was intentionally cheesy.
Me: “Okay. Okay. To us.”
[Haha]
Still cheesy.
Me: “Okay. You make one then.”
Her: “To...being sappy.”
Our glasses clink and we drink. She only has a sip for the rest of the night while I practically finish off the whole bottle.
...
***So this is what it feels like to be drunk*** I mean I’m perfectly coherent. The movie is just as entertaining and affecting as when I saw it in theaters. If anything it’s political message is even more clear and powerful.
...
The sex/love scene comes on...
Me: “Oo. Here’s the love scene. When does ours start?”
She makes it clear she doesn’t want to do anything of that nature because of the red river that still flows down there.
...
The movie is long. Eventually, we finish and retreat to the bedroom.
...
For some reason I decide to bring up the topic of this other guy she says she has a schoolgirl crush on. I go on a rant and make myself clear. Maybe it’s a culmination of the sex rejection and the dreary talks of yesterday. But the wine and the numbness in my mouth bring perspective and an all-encompassing fear.
Me: “Look, I just want respect. I’m not comfortable you hanging out with him at all. At All.”
She’s getting annoyed with the drilling and grilling. But none of her responses have shown a sensitivity or understanding. But that’s just how she is. I continue prying. I think I’m paranoid.
Her: “Look, I want to go to sleep. If you’re going to keep talking you can leave.”
...
Me: “I’m better than any of those mindless douchebags you meet at the bars!”
I rarely make judgmental self-preserving statements like that. But I know me. And I know what I’m up against: slaves...slaves to society...slaves to image. I might be one myself in so many ways but at least I’m aware of it and try to stay pure. She lives her life with a little girl’s mindset. Anything that appears bright and shiny she assumes it to be beneficial to her. All those hunks appear to be good. That’s their game. It’s all a stupid biological game. But she’s smarter than I give her credit for sometimes. I won’t shut up about it until I feel understood. She leaves the room and attempts to sleep on the couch. I follow...
Me: “Margot, this is dumb. Go back to your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
Her: “No.”
Me: “C’mon. You need rest. I’ll sleep here.”
Eventually we retreat back to the bedroom. But I continue to preach. At one point she gets frustrated and says, “Well, he keeps looking better and better,” as if my insecurity was pushing her away from me. I know she didn’t mean it. But it rubs me in such the wrong way that I grab my things and threaten to leave. I make it to the living room. She’s really apologetic now...
Her: “Baby...No...Don’t leave...Come back to bed...”
Me: “No. You’re insulting me.”
Her: “I’m sorry.”
Obviously I’m in no state to drive. She’s trying to protect me. She embraces me. I accept...with a little bit of reluctance.
Me: “Is this what I have to do to get you to be sensitive to me? Threaten to leave?”
...
We finally curl up in the bed. Remembering all the times the roles were reversed and I was the one answering to her raves and trying to calm her down...
Me: “I just pulled a you. I just pulled a Margot. How does it feel to be me?
She drifts off to sleep...quickly as usual. I’m left to soak in my worries for a while before I fade into a coma.
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