Missed Connections From My Nightmares

I was the scared, skinny thing waiting for the bus post-apocalypse. You were the panhandling hunchback with peg legs and excellent tumbling skills. You showed me your member after I declined to give you my bus fare. I’m sorry. I have the money now and would love to take you out.

You were dressed like Alex DeLarge from Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange and working the cakewalk. Was it just me, or did you call my number on purpose?

You were the young girl, about six years old and in a white lacy dress, who lived across the hall from me. I admired the likeness you painted on the wall of my friend. I was especially impressed by the ingenuity you displayed in your use of blood as paint and real molars for the teeth – it was very moving. Please call.

You work in the ice cream shop upstairs from my basement and look exactly like my current boyfriend but with a mean case of vitiligo. I try to say hi but we are never in the same place. I would love to pick your brain about what this all signifies w/r/t the current state of my relationship. Coffee? (My boyfriend also wants to meet you.)

Baby-thing with red eyes and webbed appendages I gave up some time ago. I believe you were half-demon/half-human, but it was an immaculate conception and I wasn’t ready to be a single mother. It was tense between us at the time – you tried to eat me, remember? – but would love to reconnect and see how you’ve grown, if you have a family of your own.

Parking garage, late at night. You were the young man in the red convertible trying to pull out of your spot, friend riding shotgun. I was the unassuming young woman walking behind you. Your friend shot me. In my last moments, did I take the time to flip you off? I think so but the memory is blurry now. If not, consider this a whole-hearted fuck-you.

Dave, family friend from ages ago – maybe you remember me from our neighborhood block parties? My name was Taryn, but the last time I tried to contact you I was a ghost and you were not very receptive to my messages. Maybe this will be more effective. If so, please let the others know I’ve passed on, especially my mother.

I was the completely paralyzed woman at the hotel’s complimentary breakfast last Sunday. You were the Paul Rudd look-a-like. You kissed me in an effort to help, but I fainted and the pastry table fell on us. When I regained consciousness, you were gone. Call me so we can finish what we started.

Nondescript guy. Country road, late at night. You left your burlap sack hanging from the branch of that big oak. I touched it with a stick and found it was actually a big knot of snakes. Get in touch if you’d like it back.

Kat Weaver lives in Minneapolis with her girlfriend and two birds. Her portfolio can be found here.