SORTING MY SHIT OUT

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SHORT STORY Sept. 16, 2021

I have always entertained the idea of living in my dreams. Not metaphorically, no. The idea of actually sleeping and going into the dream world and just living there forever.

 Wouldn’t that be nice? To live a life with no consequences, knowing that any moment now, you are going to wake up and none of it will matter. 

Of course, all our real lives are actually like that. Except for us, when we die, that is when we wake up. And none of this will matter then.

Look at me, rambling on and on. You must be tired of my voice by now. I know I am tired of it. But the thing is, I also love hearing myself talk.

One of my ex-girlfriends said that I have a Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

That I don’t care about anyone or anything. That’s why I keep talking even when no one is listening because who cares if they are not listening as long as I can hear myself talk?

She also said I should see a therapist. Sort my shit out. The ones, and I quote her on this, you are responsible for.

She said all that before she left with all her bags. Can you imagine that? Dumping this psychoanalysis on me and then just leaving me to deal with the aftermath? Unbelievable, right?

 And, she wasn’t even sad to go. Two years together, and no tears for dear old Teddy.

Truth be told, I did not even love her that much. I loved her ass though. She had a great ass. But other than that, nothing.

Anyway, enough about her. Let me tell you about this other ex I had, Gina.

Gina was crazy.  

We dated for only six months, and she was horny all the time. We used to have sex everywhere.

And I mean, everywhere.

Restaurant bathroom stalls. Empty houses. Heck, even in the bushes.

And then immediately after the sex, we would get into a fight. I don’t even remember what we used to fight about, but they were these crazy fights that would end with one of us breaking something.

It was all crazy.

 She was crazy.

You know why she dumped me? That I was not fulfilling her needs. Mahn, what the fuck?

When she left, I knew I would miss that pussy, but my heart couldn’t take all those crazy bitch emotions anymore.

Oh, shit, I am sorry for using such vulgar language. I know you never could stomach it, but you have no other choice now, do you?

So, anyway, a month after she left, that was when I met the other ex who did this psychoanalysis about my disorders and told me I should go see a therapist and sort out the shit you dumped on me.

Of course I never went. Why would I? Therapy is just a shitload of fuckery.

Some person sitting there with a notebook telling you why you are the way you are?

Bullshit fuckery. That is what it is.

But who am I to judge? Maybe if I had gone, you and I would have talked way before we found ourselves in this situation that we are in right now.

But before I start getting all sentimental, remind me, what I was talking about when I first came in here?

Aah, dreams. I have always entertained the idea of living in my dreams.

Actually, just the other day, I had this thought. What happens to all the dream versions of us when we wake up?

Do they get stuck in our dream worlds with no chances of escaping? Or do their worlds crumble and shatter when we wake up?

 Tell you what, if it was up to me, I would choose a dream and stick by it.

I would go to bed with that one dream, and every night I would pick right where I left off the previous night until the dream version of me gets a happy ending.

Or at least until I get stuck there. Man, wouldn’t it be cool to get stuck in the dream world?

Just like you are now.

Surely, you must be finally happy. No worries in life. No consequences. No responsibilities.

No me. No Mum.

Isn’t that what you have always wanted?

You know, I gotta say. When mum called the other day all hysterical and told me you had died of a heart attack, for a moment, there I wondered if that was even possible.

You, dead. I just could not imagine it. I mean, you carried yourself so much like a god throughout my entire life, I had begun to think you were immortal.

But today when I came here, and I saw you lying there in your coffin, grim-faced like always, you looked just like another man to me.

I guess that is how I got the courage to finally talk to you.

You know, tell you about some of my shit.

Let you know what kind of son you raised.

And now that I have, I can’t help but wonder. Do you like how I turned out dad?

by Amanda Nechesa 46

Comments

  • njeri

    Aug. 20, 2021, 11:44 a.m.

    Goodness!!!

    Amanda

    Aug. 20, 2021, 1:36 p.m.

    Riiiiight? 

    Reply

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