Last night I confronted the enemy. My mother, whose face stretched and changed into scary Jack Skellington-esque smirks, shrank to my height when I grabbed her shoulders and demanded she stop acting like a grumpy animal. I'm not sure what prompted the confrontation, but I sensed pushing her up against a metal locker.
I found myself coming home to an apartment I'd never seen before (I love that -- I always feel certain the place will show up again in my real life and I'll be in for some wicked deja vu) where Patrick was waiting to hang out with me. I told him he had some nerve coming over after what he did to me. We began to argue over whose fault it was when I stopped the bickering to make the two points I should've made in real life. I told him that his behavior, regardless of who did what to whom, was cruel and immature considering the important things that should be considered -- friendships and positive efforts to maintain said friendships, forgiveness, and keeping the peace. I explained that the last two years had given me no reason to expect anything else. I also told him that romantic relationships are complicated and assured him that I'd come away just as hurt (if not more, considering my personal disappointment over my behavior in ending the relationship) but had flown home willing to nurture bonds I consider monumental in my life. At some point, Craig called. I hung up, defeated over his too-long pauses, and tried to reheat leftover New England clam chowder, which we made together, on a stove that wouldn't light.
The last dream sucked. I woke feeling upset over things that were laid to rest years ago and dug up and reburied weeks ago. Life is often unfair. And so are dreams, apparently.