Living Well Is the Best Revenge

Another dream about Ben.

Can’t remember the nature of the project he and I were involved in together—he kept glancing at his watch—but just as soon as it was over, he was dashing over to the new gf, and they were gonna have fun, fun such as I had never dreamed of having in my entire life. They were gonna show up backstage at some Broadway show, join the chorus for the night! Spontaneously dance on stage! They could do that ‘cause that’s the way real fun rolls!

He had to leave the room for some reason, so naturally I began to go through his pockets. I found lots of weird and interesting stuff, but the only thing I can remember now is a baggie filled with marijuana.

What I remember more vividly is getting anxious that he might notice I had gone through his pockets. Should I bother to come up with a cover story, I wondered? Or should I try to gaslight him? That last would require more aplomb than I could pull off, probably. Like trying to gaslight Donald Trump.

###

When I woke up, I was furious. I get it, subconscious mind! You’re Adele H. You’re a stalker, an emotional hoarder.

But stop.

True, Ben doesn’t deserve a happily-ever-after in which you are completely obliterated.

Ben is a shit. Ben took advantage of you.

But that’s the way it worked out.

He’s happy; you’re not.

Do something about that last. Something constructive.

As Gerald Murphy—Scott Fitzgerald’s inspiration for Dick Diver—once remarked, Living well is the best revenge.