{Complicated}

First it was the dream about the dollhouse. He had been building it for my birthday. "Like 13 Going on 30?" she asked.

"Sure," I said hesitantly. Well, 13 Going on 30 if 13 Going on 30 were an avant-garde horror film.

Then the dream that I had stolen him from a friend of mine. I had walked straight up to him and given him his first kiss. He had been waiting so long; he was so happy. But then she came up to me, face crumpled and filled with passion under her dark hair. "It's not fair," she said, voice barely level. "It's not fair." Something twisted inside me, but I felt distant from it all, as if I were already drifting towards a different dream.

Then last night, the letter. We were all going to the Grotto, a popular bar, later that evening, but someone handed me a journal, like some well-known literary journal, and told me he wanted me to read it first. So I did. Inside, he had written me a letter, a very insightful letter in his spiky penmanship, alongside the journal's text. It was in a modernist, stream-of-consciousness style with various puns and riddles: more a puzzle box than a straightforward missive. I think he told me he liked me, but I didn't finish reading it, let alone making sense of it. I kept misplacing the journal. Oh good, we're together. That's a nice plot twist, a nice treat for me, I thought. But I couldn't go to meet him because I couldn't find his letter before I woke up.

"Reminds me of dreams I had in high school," she said. Yeah. Not so much me.

"The Theater of the Absurd is just good," he said. I like to think we exist, we're rare, and so are girls like you, you just need to find the right one, he replied ambiguously to my ambiguous question. Not disingenuous, ambiguous.

Boyo, it is really not that complicated. But I think I'm talking to myself again.