VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled")

  True confession: I am a dreamer. A hard core dreamer. When life gets to be too painful, overwhelming, scary, difficult; when I can’t understand why something is the way that it is...whatever you want to call it. I dream. I write elaborate narratives with my imagination to make things more...palatable. For a time, it got me into a little bit of trouble.

  There are one or two people who will never speak to me again. There is a year or two that I don’t remember very well. You might say that I have coping issues. My coping mechanism wasn’t, healthy? I don’t know. I do know that like alcohol, drugs, or sleeping around, every time that life got difficult I would imagine a different life. Not just wish for it. But imagine it, down to the last detail. One where the career of my dreams, the adventure of a lifetime, or the man who I decided was the one to complete me would sweep in and make it all better. Or at least make me feel like it was all better. When the going got tough I spent every spare moment that I could dreaming of something better.

  Was I delusional? Yes and no. My roommate’s ex says that I am...was...am? Who listens to that ya-hoo anyway. The dipshit sleeps around. My roommate insists that I’m not. She says that I kept myself from becoming delusional and that I should be proud of it. I want to believe her but, to be honest, she has her own issues. She may or may not stalk her ex by reading his books and then reading all of the books that he references in his books while she’s practically engaged to somebody else. Apparently good mental health is hard to come by these days. If you have it, cherish it.

  Back to my point, in an effort to pull myself out of this pattern of this delusional/borderline delusional behavior, I began to weave stories. Ones that others could read. Ones that weren’t so centered on what I was hoping for. I love it. It is an endeavor that propels me through life. When times are at their toughest, I know that I can always pull out pen and paper. I can write about other dream worlds. Much healthier ones.

  During the hard times, just like the urge for a shot or a cigarette. Just one...to take the edge off, my need for other options pulls at me fiercely.

Today is one of those days.

  My words stare at me from the page, messy and frantically scribbled: what it, what if, what if...my...no... a tall handsome man…no a Spaniard...

“What are you writing?” My roommate Kelly asks as she enters the kitchen.

“Nothing.” I answer. I cover the words with one hand and lift my mug of coffee with the other.

Kelly doesn’t look alarmed or ask questions. She removes a clean mug from the cabinet and pours herself some coffee. She’s wearing one of her “Saturday Out With My Man” outfits. I can always tell what Kelly is doing on any given day by her outfit. I like that in a roommate. I know what to expect before I even talk to her.

“Tulio and I are going to look at dining sets.” She announces.

“Why?”

“With me moving in soon and his kids having their long summer visit, even longer if Maria goes through with her wedding...the table at his house doesn’t seat six.”

“He has three kids. That’s five people.”

“Dining sets are typically built to seat even numbered groups of people. The dining table should seat six. At least.”

“It’s official, you should dump him.”

“I thought that you liked Tulio.”

“I do.” I say. “But, that man is moving way too fast with all of this ‘longer dining table’ business. He needs to let you get used to kids’ meals in the mini-van before moving on to the dining table.”

“You just don’t want me to leave.” Kelly says with a grin.

“I don’t. I’ll be living alone. I suck at living alone.”

“No you don’t. You won’t be living alone. You’ll need to get another roommate in order to cover the rent.”

Which is the exact moment that Don Quixote jumps on to the table and demands attention. The calico cat looks at me with his calico eyes (one green and one blue) and meows. I pet him, he collapses on to my notebook purring loudly.

“I choose, Don Quixote.” I announce looking at the cat who in return looks at me adoringly. “I will be expecting his half of the rent a week before the end of every month.”

“The Don is coming with me.” She says.

“Don Quixote is my therapy cat.”

“We’ll get you your own therapy cat.”

“I already have Don Quixote.” I counter. Don Quixote looks at Kelly and meows.

Her phone vibrates on the table. The display reads: Tulio.

“It’s Brutus.” I announce.

Kelly rolls her eyes, picks up the phone, and leaves the kitchen with my therapy cat on her heels. Traitor.