Nap after school today. I dreamt like this:
I'm at Lizzie's house. She's sitting there in her stupid little chair in the living room and she's just annoying me. Just babbling on about any such shit and it's really on my nerves, and not because she's an annoying person. She is, of course, believe you fucking me, but it's because I can see myself in her. I keep thinking to myself that I'm just like this. I'm just a stupid, babbling little girl who wants to write for her whole fucking life but she can't. I sit around at night and write my porno and just spend hours and hours cranking out shit that no one wants to read. I sit in this ugly black chair (so similar to Liz's) and touch myself while I type my little fuck tales. No real fucking writer fingers herself to her own work, but I sure as shit do. I'm masturbating on a mass scale here, just touching myself for the benefit of the masses. All the men in the world can read my shit whenever they please. But will they? Will they fucking care? Will I give any of them a half-decent orgasm? Probably not. I'm just sitting here with my hands between my thighs and my fingers are all fucking sweaty and I'm doing it because I don't have a boyfriend to do it for me. And why not? I'm not ugly. Boys tell me I'm nice looking. Fuck, they're liars. Boys lie. Boys lie. Boys fucking lie. They lie when you fuck them and they tell you you're so good and so sweet and then they call you a slut in front of their pencil-dicked virgin friends. But they got laid at least. Boys don't fuck, they don't ever fuck; they get laid. Girls don't fuck either. They get fucked. And getting fucked is a crime, and getting laid is an accomplishment. And nobody just fucks. Fucking is an abstract concept, along with perfection and morality. And there's no help from girls either. They all sit around and giggle and smile flirtatiously and suck dick gently and discreetly and they talk about you too. Because I fuck. I am a definer of the abstract. I take the blurry into focus. I wear old sneakers and sweatpants to school and my glasses are black and thick and my hair is stringy and I wear socks when I fuck. I don't care; I don't give a shit. I write. I put it all down. My record of immorality. My vessel of imperfection. And who likes it? Who reads it? Who cares?
And that is what I think as I sit and stare at Lizzie as she babbles on about the boy she kissed with her tongue at some stupid post-game party. Of course, she makes certain to say that she pushed him away when he got too fucking fresh. Of course. Then Lizzie would be like me. God forbid!
So by this point I was certain that my dream would be yet another warm soak in the tub of emotional self-mutilation. And then the doorbell rang. Doorbells do not ever ring in dreams if nothing important will come of them.
We open the door and a pizza boy steps in. He is not carrying a pizza. I just know he's a pizza boy though; hell it's my fucking dream.
"Hey there... do any of you ladies know where the... Smith house is? I think it's number 56, but the numbers go from 52 right to 68..."
Smith. I'm even a fucking hack in my sleep.
I look him up and down. Nice enough body. Thin. Somewhat cute. Why am I not dreaming of some ultra-specimen? I like normal boys better, of course.
I walk over to him and hug him. He's surprised and hugs me back. Strong hugger. Good boy.