Last night I had a dream I can’t shake. I never post such things on here, knowing full well that hearing other people’s dreams ties “watching snot dry” for Most Boring, but I’ll make it quick. Basically, Tessa and I were in a giant gathering of our friends (nobody specific) and important business relations and peers, in a huge auditorium in the round. We were all encouraged to speak, and when I took my turn, I basically had a meltdown that embarrassed everyone I knew.
I mean a totally scorched-earth, cannot-be-unsaid rant that was so awful that none of my friends could look me in the eye, and my wife was forced to contemplate sticking with me. As soon as I woke up, the specifics of my transgressions were lost to the sobering sunlight of a beach morning, but the emotional weight stayed with me.
All day, I’ve felt like I’ve fucked something up irrevocably, that my friends are hideously embarrassed of me, and that a special intervention is about to be called on the state of my character. I wrote emails to people, then immediately regretted sending them. We talked to our manager about possible post-strike projects, and I felt shaky and unworthy.
I even watched part of the first season of “Project Runway” on Bravo tonight, and flinched with horrifying recognition at the hatred unleashed on Wendy Pepper, the mom from Virginia. I recognized her odd, insecure defiance, how she seemed to soak in the disgust of her competitors. Here I am, watching reruns of a reality cable show from three years ago, and recognizing how infinitely hate-able I have always been (the sickening byproduct of charm).
The only thing I’ve ever been able to count on is paralyzing self-awareness. I’ve always known what I look like, always been able to tell what everyone thought. When I felt some of that hatred coming my way, fair or not, I always knew how to disappear for a week, seeking the tincture of time.
I hope tonight I dream about robots with big boobs.