Pinch, Kiss, Curse.

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It had every indicator of reality. Her coy retreat from my advances, both of us pausing for long awkward silences to ruminate upon one another's intent, and her allusions to an early departure so there'd be no opportunity for a stolen kiss.

This was reality to me at least.

Jump cut to us sitting closely beside one another on the perilously steep stairs to the second level of my bedroom. We're masked in the deathly pale blue tint of early morning sunlight filtered through snow covered windows. The fact that I had to actually pinch myself in my own dream, which doesn't work by the way, should have shown me that happiness was once again coming to me as a poorly constructed nocturnal diorama of hope. She placed her hands on my cheeks and apologetically brought her lips to mine. The pinch hurt, the kiss felt real, and I believed that months of agonizing longing for an unrequited love had arbitrarily rectified itself in the frozen tundra of Pleasant Valley, New York.

I wake up.

I'm making out with a pool of drool on my itchy pillow and curse aloud. The dreams had stopped for a while. Still, every so often the Idealist Within that I tried to have excommunicated would make a bitter sweet return to the Kingdom of Me. I roll over and cling to my 60 year old bedsheets, recalling all the embarrassing things I said and did trying to woo her. I scold myself for being so blind. Then I think about how happy I felt consciously charging Don Quixote's Windmill of love. Even in failure. Utter and complete failure, I was starting to realize what a relationship could and should be. Though it was not going to be with this particular idealized trashy brunette 90s girl, the lesson learned gave me solace in considering my next romantic escapade.

- The Commodore