Cold November Rain of 2020: “he’s awake now, you can see him”.

Reflections on a dream and remembering the most toxic and tragic love story – with inspiration from Bret Easton Ellis, Guns N’ Roses, and Kanye West

Had a dream about James last night.

I was in a hotel suite with 6 rooms for 6 people. 

(Paris Hilton had one and she was in there just chillin, with all her beauty and pink shit.)

James came into the room, said he was staying there. He came in all cool but then eventually

It starts normally enough, but the farther in you get, as you begin to see Patrick’s sanity slowly slipping, the author too seems to break down the structure of the book. Sentences that trail off into nothing, incomplete thoughts, missing punctuation; it all helps to add to the growing conclusion that Patrick Bateman is losing his mind, slipping further into madness.

https://theliterarykat.com/2020/06/08/book-review-american-psycho-by-bret-easton-ellis/

6 rooms in the suite were already occupied by each of the 6 people (including Paris 🌹). 

How do you get a key at a hotel? Well obviously, you just check in. 

Or you tell them you lost your key. That you’re staying with Elle B. Hunter in room whatever-the-fuck, and well darn it …”I must have lost my key.”


And how did he know I was at this hotel? We hadn’t had any contact for a year. 

People are doing all sorts of things out there, while you live your life. Mostly they are not concerned with what you’re doing. But sometimes - they are.

I was terrified. My voice shook when I locked myself in a room and talked to the front desk, asking them to verify he was staying in this suite. (if you find yourself wondering why I didn’t just call 911, go fuck yourself….and PSA: don’t EVER ask someone who survived a traumatic event, “why didn’t you just [insert ignorant suggestion here]?”. 

Things got scarier from that point forward. As they always do.

I had a shitty day that started with full recollection of the dream and culminated in me seeing red that night. The Uber’s back left-side door wouldn’t unlock. I couldn’t get out.

I screamed at him – like I should have screamed at the driver of the red car. Like I should have screamed at James, that day and so many times after. By the time I screamed at James, the damage was done and the trauma piled up. By the time I screamed at James I was dreaming, and it was too late. It was often too late.

Fight or Flight hit in that Uber and I wasn’t on Belmont anymore. “Let me out of this fucking car, you mother fucker!!!” and some more stuff.

Once I made it out and was across the street, I heard him yell “fuck you, bitch!”.

My head whipped around to face the car, but I only saw red, and I screamed “go fuck your mom!!”

It was a Saturday night on Belmont. There were people everywhere. Like cars on a freeway just driving while someone is getting chased on 55 by a shitty red car.

---

Even when somebody go away

The feelings don’t really go away
That’s just the wave
waves don’t die

Kanye West
“Waves”
Life of Pablo, 2016

I’ll never see him or talk to him again. But I’ll also never forget the rose. Or the gold in my cheeks when I smiled at him, at his sweet swollen face in that hospital bed, as I held his hand and read him my haikus I had written in the waiting area. Waiting to here someone come and tell me “he’s awake now, you can see him”.

Love is a feeling. It was, for you sweet James, “unjustified” – as they say in DBT – because it almost killed me.

It didn’t go away, I guess. I just don’t acknowledge it anymore.