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Who Here Is a Therapist?

My subconscious adores Martin Starr. Every time it needs to manifest an idea for me to learn something in a dream, it uses him. I don’t mind, but sometimes it messes me up.

Like, my dream is so vivid and the feelings I feel are so strong and understood (because it’s my subconscious—it is all the feelings), that I wake up and realize none of it is real, and there’s a hole. I feel all of these things for a person whose face I know, but whom I know nothing about. So now when I see the face, I project all this warmth onto it. It’s not real. Nothing I’ve believed is real. It’s so strange.


And it doesn’t help that I’m 2 degrees (Kevin Bacon-style) away from the real-life Martin Starr. That seems close enough to maybe meet one day, but it’s also insane stalker bullshit. And I am not one of those girls.

I know these dreams are just me projecting my many issues into a story I can relate to and learn from. It’s also exceedingly strange when my subconscious gives me an imaginary boyfriend who looks like a stranger on my tv who kind of reminds me of guys I’ve known.

I don’t know a lot of men anymore. Most of my friends and co-workers are women. I don’t have a lot of faces near me to project onto, so I guess the ones in my TV are the ones most deeply absorbed in my brain.


Maybe I’m dreaming these things to inspire my writing. Maybe I’m trying to get myself to write again, some interesting story (or 5), inspired by this recurrence of the image. The recurrence and developments of feeling. Maybe I will write that book.

Maybe after the next one. I think there will be a lighthouse in that one.

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