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screenplay of love.

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Oct. 7th, 2012 | 08:08 am


I had a dream that a man I didn’t know had interviewed some of my ex’s to learn about my life and write a movie along about our life. A fictional story based on an imaginary relationship with him.

He wanted to figure out a realistic hypothetical situation where we’d be together. From start to finish. Why we’d break up, if we’d dance in parking lots, whether we’d smoke pot sitting on our kitchen counters, if he would be someone i never feel comfortable around without make up on… or if i’d want to walk around naked in his apartment… or wear high-rise underwear from american apparel around.

Would he be one of the boyfriends to help me through my fits of anxiety or one of the lucky ones who managed to get a year or two in when I was more healthy?

He had already written the first draft of the screenplay when I was handed a note by my balding ex that said, “I’m meeting Nessa at the food court tomorrow and I’d like you to come.” This was the first I’d heard of it, but I wanted to meet him. I felt like everyone was watching me - like the writer had a bit of omnipresence, with everyone in the world watching what i did these days, taking notes and reporting back.

I thought I was going mad. A car followed me from the gas station to a diner and after passing by the window and observing my order, they drove away. I noticed an elderly woman in a red coat checking my shopping cart as she passed me in the supermarket, getting out a notebook as she turned into the cereal aisle. I found a scrap of paper in a parking lot that said “she sighed in the post office at 9:16 after checking her phone. Could she be slipping back into depression?”

I met him, briefly. For someone writing a movie inspired by our fictional relationship, he was dismissive of me. Maybe this was because we had already broken up in his version of the story. I thought I heard him call me a cunt under his breath. 

He barely asked me any questions. He wanted to fill in some missing details he couldn’t get from anyone else. “You mean, my side of the story?” No, he said. He asked how many orgasms I’d faked, whether or not I liked the gifts I got from Mike our last Christmas together, and if I was in love with XXXX when we dry humped in his living room.

The dream ended with me sitting in a depressing mall food court by myself. I can’t remember if my balding ex had came or just handed off the note. I woke up with the strangest feeling of having been rejected.

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