dreams are fucking with me and i watched too much of netflix’s ‘The Circle’

j. and k. wrote a musical called “Sailor Mun” in Minecraft and our blocky bodies and square heads danced awkwardly in sparkly spandex with eye masks to hide our identities, black and white and top hats because we’re fancy. because bleacher seating with broadway light bulbs become dangerous scaffolding to dance on but we manage to do it and i have no idea if this is good, if we are good, but it doesn’t matter. it just matters that we keep moving the show along. all the music sounds like it’s from the Music Man or Oklahoma and some of it is in Japanese and at the 30 minute mark the sparkly spandex becomes itchy before it starts to dissolve and just become part of our skin and i start to disassociate because I want to be somewhere else, my round belly slick with sweat, dancing even though I don’t know how to dance, something else moving my body for me while my brain takes a trip to my house, mentally scanning my room for my lost passport which hasn’t been touched in three years.

i know i went to an official government building in 2017 to get my passport photo for no other reason than i read my renewal instructions incorrectly. my hair is a short wavy bob, contact lenses in and a heather blue nike hoodie i don’t own anymore. and a weird squinty smile. no teeth. never teeth. i didn’t want to be there either. i didn’t want to be anywhere back then. i didn’t know how to do life outside the usual and the usual was both boring and stressful at the same time.

after my unnecessary trip to an office building to have my picture taken, i walked a couple of blocks and bought a $5 latte that made me feel special but tasted just ok. i drank it in a repurposed warehouse with a lot of reclaimed wood surrounded by white people in backpacks. it was fine. i took a lyft home and added a penny to the internal shame bucket, already overflowing with coins, one for each time i flexed a privilege i felt i didn’t deserve. every $5 latte. every lyft ride. every pair of linen pants a girl like me with meaty thighs has no right to wear lest i want to set myself on fire.

it can happen like that, the instant you realize how you have everything you asked for to find out that you didn’t really know what you wanted to begin with.

“don’t make things harder for yourself,” he said.

do you know me?

how much therapy will i need to undo this? what does it cost for a hard reset? am i asking myself questions in my head in carrie bradshaw’s voice and does that make me groan with loathing for myself and this reference?

yes. yes i am. yes i have. i apologize in advance for any future unnecessary Sex in the City references. insert green face almost puking emoji here. send.