This blog is gonna go through a little construction. And by construction, I mean I’m literally so sick and tired of writing about my freaking life. I’m so tired of it. I feel like I’m just recycling topics because my life is a boring vacuum. I don’t want to stop blogging–I mean, I could, I probably wouldn’t miss it too much–but this is my place to be just me. I only feel interesting when I’m here behind a screen, where I can think my words over. I’m a writer, not a speaker. Speaking is not for me. So I email, text, blog, IM, pass notes–I don’t say as many silly things that way. And also, I’m just better at it. I can express myself more.
But enough about that. Today, I’m going to write about a dream–nightmare–I had last night. Does anyone actually have really pleasant, wonderful dreams? For me, having dreams means having nightmares. I don’t even dream that much, which I guess in my case is good. But last night, obviously, I did…
Guess who it involves? Guess. The Infamous James! Of course it is. (I’m going to keep referencing that post for all eternity, so you should probably read it if you haven’t already.) In my dream, I was doing push-ups, when James approached me and started kicking at my hands. I refused to look up–I knew who it was, but I didn’t want to admit it. Nor did I want to lay eyes on his face again. Eventually, though, I did. He looked the same as he had two years ago (this dream was set in the present).
“Hey Abigail, I came to apologize.”
“Oh?” I stood up. He was my height now. He’d always been my height, maybe even a bit shorter–but always seemed so much taller.
“Yeah.” James then came very close to me, put his arm around me (which made me quite uncomfortable) and grinned–the same grin, the familiar one, without any trace of sincerity. “Did I really hurt you that much?” At that point, I knew he was only trying to trick me yet again. I pulled away from him, but he laughed and followed me. From that day on, he just showed up everywhere in my life, all the time. He was inescapable. Nothing I did would ever make him take me seriously. It was seventh grade all over again. The end.
Again, it’s really just a recurring dream. Well, kind of. It changes every time, but the theme is the same–the reappearance of James in my life. That, or another terrible sleepover. My dreams are recycling themselves and presenting themselves in different forms! The same two dreams! Kinda strange.
You know what makes me angry? The way society totally glorifies life. That sounds weird. Like, they glam everything up so it’s perfect. Why do we grow up with sun and rainbows when we’ll only fall and realize that life isn’t entirely made of such things? On the topic of James, I’m talking about relationships. We grow up with Prince Charming and all that crap, and some connection is made in our mind–hey, that could be me! So we attempt this, when we haven’t taken into consideration that we’re like, twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. When do ninety percent of the boys stop being asses? It’s sometime before then. So we expect a Prince Charming relationship with an immature guy. That’s what happens. I want someone to blame for me being a fiery, boy-crazy, immature, naive, insane kid in seventh grade. Who do I blame? Everyone who puts sappy “first love” stories in the media. How dare they glorify the primitive species of Middle School Boy?
I’m probably surrounded by James-like boys at school. But I’ve learned to shut up and sit down. Don’t interact. Don’t talk. If you shut your mouth, you’ll be fine. Thus, eighth grade. Nobody really said or did anything mean to me then. Why? Because I became invisible. That’s what I want to be. Invisible. So I’m not bothered by the annoy jerks at school.
Moral of all of this? Don’t talk to anyone unless you know them.
Kidding. You should take risks. I just haven’t provided evidence that suggests you should. But you should. No matter how much I make it sound like you shouldn’t.