Hiding in Reality

   So right now, I’m actually hiding in a public restroom. It’s not a stall, it’s one that’s an actual room, and I can lock the door and ignore all of the people who knock because they need to pee. 

   Sorry, my existential crisis is just a little bit more important to me than your bladder Rebecca. You can hold it…

   Anyway, I woke up today in the best mood I’ve been in in weeks. I had a really great dream last night, and it felt like real life. It was one of those dreams that you hold onto for the rest of all eternity because it just felt so real. 

   In it, I was living in my own apartment in New York. It was probably a much more lavish apartment than the one I will have when I move there in a year… but who’s keeping tabs? And in this apartment sat a friend of mine.

   This friend was lounging on my sofa, complaining about work, complaining about life, complaining about something, and I was telling them that they were being dramatic and that nothing could possibly be as bad as they were making it out to be.

   I know what you’re thinking. “This friend is the person who you’ve lost your marbles over, Mikey…” And you’d be right to say that. The friend in my dream was the friend who I’m putting through hell right now.

   But the craziest thing is, in my dream, as we talked, this random woman walked through my door. Now, I didn’t know who this woman was at first, but I also did. Does that make sense? Let me clarify things.

   In my concious mind, if that exists while you sleep, I had no idea who this woman was. But she was beautiful. And she smelled like vanilla. I kind of knew who she was when I smelled that. (Can you smell dreams? Well I did…)

  However, in my dream-self’s concious mind, I knew this woman to be my girlfriend. Which is why it would make sense that she smelled like vanilla; because I usually smell like vanilla. What could be more romantic that a couple that smells alike? 

   That is, unless the smell is unpleasant. I wouldn’t venture to refer to that as romantic? Repulsive, maybe?

   In any event, this woman made me light up with joy. I ran over and kissed her, and I felt the most content that I have ever felt in my life.

   And my friend was there, on the sofa, and he watched us. And he smiled at us. And then he threw a cat.

   I knew who that cat was. 

   He’s reading this, so he knows who that cat was too.

  And that was the gist of it. 

   I say all of this to say this. And I’m going to say it directly…

   For the past few weeks, I have put you through absolute hell. I have confused you, I have made you feel like a criminal, I have made you think that everything is your fault.

   For that, I am sorry.

   I am sorry that I put all of the blame on you for this. Because it’s not all your fault. A great deal falls on me too.

   I should have been more honest. I shouldn’t have let my fears hold me back. I should have just lived in the moment with you, just as you tried to do with me.

   I just couldn’t help but think you would be satisfied with me, for many reasons. My body, my race, my inability to conform to so many social norms. My inability to take you to fancy places. My inability to drop everything and just go to New York with you. My inability to satisfy you. (My mother sees this so I won’t specify, but you and I both know what I mean)

   This whole thing came from my fear of you. You scared me shitless. And I know that I wasn’t the type of guy that you had ever showed any interest in. And I wasn’t sure that if we got into things, that your family or friends would ever accept me either.

   Black. Outspoken. Extremely dinstinctivrlely dressed.

   But that is no excuse. 

   I am sorry for hurting you. I am sorry for making it seem like I thought you wanted to hurt me. I am sorry for ever even thinking that you wanted to hurt me. 

   You are amazing. In every way. I mean that. And you know me.

   You know that my heart is good.

   You know that the person you’ve seen these past few weeks is not me.

   Two days ago you told me that it wasn’t you who was hard to read, but me. I see that now. Even I don’t know how to read myself sometimes.

   Fear and inexperience is a horrible thing.

   But, this is my attempt at an apology. I hope you can forgive me. 

   I mean it when I say this, and I always have. I love you. And I don’t say that romantically this time

   I feel like you’re one of my best friends. And I’m treating you like you’re my enemy. 

  You’re not. You’re a great ally.

  I hope you can forgive me. Because I truly, truly am sorry, Rex.

   And since I know you read this, fucking come pick up your shoes. I spent money on these damn things and I’m not going to wear them. Idk wtf you think this is. Fucking asshole. -.-

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