my nails are gold

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you wake up from a deep sleep because of a strange howling noise coming from the other room. there’s a strange blue glow at the edges of your vision and the clock says 3:95 mm. you enter your kitchen to find me, floating a few inches off the ground, in cheap mismatched cotton lingerie offset by a floor-length silk robe of deep purple and a tiara sits lopsided on my head. one(1) ugg boot on my right foot and a stitch(626) necklace hangs down close to my navel. my hair is a curly frizzy mess that moves around on its own, whispering secrets of the universe in a lost language you can somehow just barely understand. my nails are painted gold but severely chipped and it appears as though i was finger painting earlier. my glasses are smudged and dirty beyond comprehension but you can see a trace of fire burning thru my retinas. im holding a bottle of red wine in one hand and a large can of whipped cream in the other. ‘dancing queen’ by the iconic abba is playing on loop in the distance, loud enough to be noticeable but quiet enough to make you feel nostalgic and dissociative. the howling noise that woke you isn’t even me (although i am crying), it’s al seven of your cats, backs hunched up, afraid. but wait, you don’t have any cats. you ask me what’s going on. i ask you if you have any buffalo chicken dip. you tell me you don’t have any dip, knowing full well there’s a fresh batch sitting in your fridge. i am understandably enraged, and lay a curse on your last born child. last, just for some extra added anxiety. you tell me that’s a dick move. i tell you to watch your fucking language. a snake slithers out of my belly button and like, reiterates that you should watch your fucking language, like dude, she’s a lady, be respectful, come on. i tell the snake i can fight my own battles. we start arguing and the loop of ‘dancing queen’ gets a little louder. you interrupt us and ask me to leave. i produce a sack and start floating around your kitchen, taking food out of the cabinets that i like. you tell me to stop robbing you. i tell you i’ll be back for your last born child when you least expect it, before chanting ominously in what you’re pretty sure is that weird star trek language, and floating out your window, the sack of stolen food with me. halfway out the window my long silk robe snags on something and i face-plant on the ground and stay down for a few moments before popping back up, insisting i meant to do that with a very embarrassed smile, and saying i’ll see you later before flying back into the night sky. soon, all you can see of me is a tiny speck. dancing queen is still playing on a loop. the cats are still there. you’re welcome. three weeks later you meet a lovely if not awkward and frumpy girl chugging a blue powerade in the middle of barnes and nobles. she has messy brown hair and purple glasses and you are struck by the strong sensation that you know her from somewhere. it hits you that she could be your soulmate, if not your manic pixie dream girl. you ask her to go out with you, but she turns you down, like what the hell, why would she go out with a random guy coming up to her in a store, she doesn’t know you. you spend the next week getting to know her and she really makes you work for it before finally agreeing to a date. after a whirlwind three years of a fairytale love story you get married with a simple but elegant ceremony. six months later, laying in bed with your wife, the love of your life, you turn to her and ask her if she wants to start trying to have kids. i, your wife, grin widely, and say i would love nothing more than to have children with you. It Begins.