Reality

The Search

I had never been a big fan of sleep. It was almost as if there were two parts to every person's life. One that was more realistic and logical, and another that was more easily controlled, but even less predictable. One minute, you are dancing at your brothers wedding. The next, you're nearly drowning in a bath tub.

It's been said, that the things you see in your head during that period of time are called dreams. They happen every night, 7 times on average, and are completely random. Most people don't even remember the things they see, or the choices they make, let alone control them.

Most people.

I am different.

To me, every dream is connected, no matter how different they seem to be. Each meaning is somehow put together into one big message. Some people think nothing of them, when actually, they aren't at random. Not at all.

How do we piece them together? Well, I haven't quite figured that out yet.

"...and the only thing he really cared about was me. What was I supposed to do, tell him I wasn't interested? Margo, this guy literally got arrested to impress me."

I shook myself out of my daydream just in time to catch the end of Georgia's long and boring rant about one of the many young men who 'obsess' over her. I mean, who wouldn't? Any guy would kill to have a girl who was thin, blonde, and beautiful. Which explains a lot, seeing as I eat pizza for every meal and dress like a hog. Most days, I don't even brush my hair. As of right now, i'm pretty sure my parents think i'm crazy.

"Marg, did you hear anything I just said?" Her tone sounded more than irritated, and the white knuckles around the edges of her bright pink iPhone only confirmed. She leaned against the metal backing of the cheap fast food restaurant chairs our local mall provided, and huffed at my lack of attention.

"Georgia Mills has yet another admirer. And now, she has to go on a date with said admirer, that she only agreed to attend out of pity." I rolled my eyes and sipped my one-dollar diet coke.

The only thing she really talked about was boys. And frankly, I wasn't interested. Not one bit. I would rather talk about the latest Motley Crüe top hit song, or discuss the meaning of one of Shakespeare's ancient sonnets.

Sometimes, I questioned how Georgia and I even became friends in the first place. My style and personality was almost the exact opposite of her: jeans and an oversized t-shirt and an obsession with poetry and a bigger reality, vs. leggings matched to an excessively tight and revealing blouse and an obsession with boys and fashion. It doesn't quite fit the expected average.

"Margo, I am one-hundred and ninety-nine percent sure you have not only finished that soda, but no doubt inhaled parts of the cup along with it." She said, standing up and pushing in her chair. I didn't notice that I was slurping non-existing liquid out of the cheap paper cup until she sarcastically made it very clear to me that I was bothering her. I rolled my eyes and made my way over to the closest trash can.

"Can we go to the consignment shop down the street? I need a new pair of sweats." I asked, watching my cup fall to the bottom of the waste bin.

"Are you joking? We haven't even gone to AJ's."

AJ's was where most of the preppy girls get their "top-quality, vintage and in-style" heels and handbags. I personally hated that store with a burning passion, but of course, being the preppy girl she is, G had to buy a pair of AJ brand shoes every single time she brought me to the mall. I don't even like shopping.

I grudgingly walked through the store, unenthusiastically oohing and aahing when necessary. In truth, I hated shopping. It was probably one of my top three least favorite activities in the whole world. I also hated cleaning, homework, and small children.