Echo

I wanted to be with you alone
And talk about the weather
But traditions I can trace against the child in your face
Won’t escape my attention
You keep your distance via the system of touch
And gentle persuasion
I’m lost in admiration, could I need you this much?
Oh, you’re wasting my time
You’re just…just…just wasting time

Intense dreams last night. First, I was a part of the CBI team from the show, The Mentalist. But I was like Patrick Jane’s protege. We went to this condo where a woman had been murdered, and it was a horrific scene. Van Pelt found an ID card in the house. It had no photo but had all of my information on it. It was spooky. We discussed that the killer must have planted it, expecting us to find it, and I was freaking out that this had to be some kind of game intended for me. Realizing that, we figured the killer would have wanted to gauge our reaction to his “work.” There was a stuffed animal in the room that didn’t seem like it belonged. I told them to open it. Cho cut it open and found a listening device. He’d been listening the whole time. I immediately regretted having freaked out when we found the card with my name and info on it. These types of people feed off of fear, and the fact he knew he had scared me would only encourage him to escalate. This was a bad thing.

I went back to my hotel room with Van Pelt (Grace) as a guard and found that someone had let some people in, telling them that there was a party here. I saw they’d raided the minibar so that was bad news. More people showed up saying that they’d gotten some kind of text notification. I looked at Van Pelt, who looked at me like this is fucked, clearly someone was fucking with me. But deciding that I wasn’t going to be the one left with the bill for the minibar, I started collecting a $20 cover from people. This tall guy in a button-down, total future-Wall Street douche came in and said there were 10 of them. They were all tall, big guys. So he talked himself and his friends in, and when I tried collecting the cover, he blew me off. When I straight up told him he needed to hand over $200 or get out, he basically told me to try to make him. He went into the bathroom. I thought about it, and realized that without the guys from the team here, there was no one big enough to kick this guy out. Then I realized that I was in control of the reality of this situation, and I could be as strong as I want. So I kicked in the door, and saw him on the toilet, pants down. Got a good look at his junk. I backhanded him right there on the toilet, then grabbed him by the hair and threw him out of the bathroom, pants down and all. Told him to get the fuck out. He got out of there quickly and his friends followed complacently without a word.

The scene in my hotel room was stupid, but we had enough cash to cover the minibar, so Grace and I went down to this bar across the street, a saloon-type bar with wood-paneling, sawdust on the floor, cheap beers. We were sitting there, when we saw Curtis at the bar, staring at me with that sad-ass look he likes to wear. He wants you to go talk to him, she said. Of course he does, I said. Not only does he deal in misery, but he expects you to walk over and get it yourself. Fuck him.

I ignored him and he gave up staring at me. Some trashy, idiotic girl walked up to him and fawned all over him, and he took her into the bathroom. He came out a few minutes later and went back to his place at the bar, giving me a sad look like, “Look what you made me do.” Such a hypocrite. He can’t see the contradiction because he has a justification for everything, and a crafty way of blaming everyone but himself for the results of his choices. She came stumbling out after a while, her hair a mess and her clothes askew. She sat down at our table all dazed, like a woman who just got fucked. Holy shit, she said. That one’s got a big dick and damn boy, he knows how to use it.

I rolled my eyes and walked out as she was in mid-sentence. I don’t have time for this shit. This situation was retarded. Really? You think just cuz a guy knows how to fuck, it makes him a prize? If all a guy can boast is a big dick, then he’s a very poor little person with a big dick. The equivalent of a prostitute. Not even a consolation prize. I’m sick of chicks with no self-respect.

As we were walking back, Grace asked me why I never slept with him. Because he’s a sad person, I said. And I meant it.

Welcome to your life
There’s no turning back…