I'm tough to deal with. I live in some sort of fairytale that turns most people away. & the fairytale I dream of every night opens with a hallway full of mirrors and chandeliers. My dreams, though, turn to nightmares soon as I wake: Ceiling bare and walls too close for my taste. Not enough windows. Not enough air. Not enough space. I'm happier when I'm asleep. & in this terrifying nightmare of a reality, my dream home belongs to someone else. That should be mine, I think upon waking. And from there I go. From there it happens. All of my thoughts are punctuated with dollar signs. I construct mental blueprints. Plots. The possibilities change. There are deviations. I brainstorm. But the end goal is always the same. I want the money. Cold. Hard. Cash. Fuck what you heard.
