I’d love to get a coffee with the girl who writes my dreams; I think we’d be a great pair! 

One weekend in May I like my outfit, and that night I throw up. I paint something poorly and make 30 dumplings and complain about the dark clouds as if they are not just the earth. I walk seven miles and that night she writes a hairy snake into my dream (raunchy choice of a villain). 

Izzy says “RIP Eve Babitz, she would’ve loved that guy.” I think about how sometimes I meet people that Eve would love, but then I wonder if me and her would even get along. She is “the child of Hollywood” and I dream about roadkill. One night a dead squirrel is written into my dream. The squirrel was in one piece, which meant I was moved to take it home. Friends came over later and I confessed that I no longer knew what to do with the roadkill and actually worried it would make me ill. I wondered how I could be so scared of something that I had been so eager to find.

I often feel like I want a pickle, and I never do. She reminds me that Fiona Apple says “You can use my skin to bury secrets in,” but she knows that I don’t like secrets and I love the feeling of skin. I am reluctant to say that sometimes we want things we don’t like.

Before the cash register we gasp at the inch worm on top of the baked goods display. Our hands reach for him, and the guy taking our order motions his eyes to the counter and says “can you put him there?” It was the perfect thing to say. 

She writes of me on a street somewhere in Europe where I am robbed. I go into a cafe that now has all the lights off and no customers. As soon as an employee brings me water the lights are on and the seats are filled. I wonder what she means by this but then I remember that dreams do not have bodies.