To get the full story, start with EPISODE 1
Of course, I’ve used the tried and tested method of blaming it all – or most of it – on her. And one does get a few crazy-ex jokes out of it. But when you stop and think about it for a bit, it just makes you sad. Because you either admit to unjustly vilifying someone in order to feel better – you pathetic buffoon! – or you face the fact that you don’t know what the heck got into you for spending so much time with them in the first place and would someone just please make the memory of those years go away?!
‘You really shouldn’t be here’, I told Pantazia in my dream.
‘We didn’t get any closure’ she darted back at me.
‘Yes, we did. It’s what they call breaking-up and moving on.’
‘Ah, but why am I still in your dreams then?’
‘For the same nonsensical reason I sometimes dream of falling from high places. Probably just an underhanded method the brain uses to elicit a healthy workout. A couch potato’s cardio, if you will. ‘
‘Oh’, she said, rather dejectedly, ‘for a second there I thought you were gonna go with the whole masochistic taste for the bittersweet yet incredibly satisfying bliss of pain.’
‘I don’t do that stuff anymore.’
‘That’s not what I’ve heard’ she answered, a lewd grin plastered across her face.
‘Why do *you* get the smutty lines? It’s *my* dream!’
I was distinctly annoyed by how things were unfolding.
‘Because you don’t really think too highly of yourself so why waste perfectly good lines on yourself?’
‘Yes, well you sure didn’t help with my whole self-confidence issues’ I mumbled, sulkily.
‘Honey, I’m neither your shrink, nor your life coach. I can’t fix you, just as you couldn’t fix me. No chance. Only difference is I’ve never bothered to try.’
‘So what about the nagging, the reproaches, the guilt trips?’ I quizzed her.
‘Boredom, mostly. Plus, I loved pushing your buttons. By the way, you’re making me say that in your dream and it’s not really fair, dear. Anyone you break up with as we did becomes a villain in your past, but don’t overdo it. It’s rather beneath you. Besides, this is supposed to be a moment of brutal honesty. Stop it!’
After that there was something about me selling my clothes in exchange for a watermelon – carefully keeping my socks on though for some odd reason – and walking off into the sunset with said fruit shielding my unmentionables and a faint suspicion that something might be off. Dreams are like I guess. They possess pockets of coherence and constructive criticism but are mostly flooded by an ocean of ‘I don’t even…’
As I woke up, I found myself beside a pensive Bifidus. She asked me:
‘Why do they do this?’