As I lay in the darkness, it occurred to me that I must be the most boring, single, thirty-year-old ever. I didn’t go out much. I ate crappy food. I couldn’t even remember the score of the games I just watched.
This was not how I had imagined myself at this point in my life. Had my marriage not crashed and burned, we probably would have a baby by now. Yeah, and I would still be married to an asstard. He probably would have spawned asstardlets. I just wanted to feel like my life was going somewhere—like I was accomplishing something. I rolled over on my side and vowed to try to get myself together and move forward.
When I finally fell asleep, I dreamt I went on my first post-divorce date. The guy took me to a fancy restaurant, ordered lots of food and expensive wine, and then ditched me for the voluptuous hostess. I was presented with the check but lacked any means of paying it. After negotiating a payment plan with the restaurant owner, which involved allowing him to indulge his foot fetish with my pinkie toes and some flavored whipped cream. I left the place and got into my car, which was really weird because my date drove.
There in the parking lot were dine-and-dash and the hostess, groping each other with utter abandon. I revved up the engine, threw the car into drive, and peeled out towards them. The headlights illuminated their stunned faces as I spun the car sharply, rolled down the window, and chucked a lit Molotov cocktail—made from the empty wine bottle from dinner—at them and sped off humming the theme to “The Lion King.”
I woke up thinking I must be making progress. Usually in my dreams, I ran them over after I set them on fire.
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