Dream in which Steve Buscemi, my ex-boyfriend’s father, writes a screenplay about me

I hear through the grapevine that he’s proud 
to have captured my essence: deeply emotional-
ly attuned to the needs of others, resulting in anxiety 

and abrasive bitchiness. He writes a character for his son 
as well: earnest, loyal and true. I wonder if he notices 
the resemblance to a golden retriever, try to laugh at his brazen 

contempt, blinkered attack on my failure. Often, I see myself 
sputtering, sleeping feverish and drowning in the spit 
of self-destruction—falling forever from some 

kind of grace. I can see him giving the elevator pitch to mutual friends: 
dragging his hand in an arc in front of him, as though revealing 
the best movie title of all time, glimmering on a marquee. 

He raises an eyebrow, awaits applause. In the silence, 
I can hear the tiny audience in his mind go wild. He wants 
the Coen Brothers to direct, or better yet, his friend, Quentin Tarantino. 

I cringe to think of the pleasure such a man will take in mutilating me 
on-screen. A masochist, I attend the premiere, watch my life as revenge narrative, 
grotesque and bloody: righteously punished for abrasive bitchiness. Critics rave.