02-03-02 - 8:07 a.m.
the real patrick haunted my dreams last night, emerging from a coach usa bus of stinky tourists with that contemptuous air the french have developed into an artform. italian leather loafers. no socks. wrinkled linen slacks. pullover sweater knotted stylishly around his shoulders. and tilted rakishly on his head...
a dallas cowboys baseball hat.
the meaning of this dream is not lost on me. beyond the complicated web of deceit that has become my life lies the intriguing land of what ifs.
what if i had not resigned as tour manager the very day the real patrick asked me to dinner?
what if the art of concocting a screaming orgasm was not lost on me, forcing me to drop out of bartending school?
what if, in a fit of unemployment despair, i had not applied for a part time, low paying, front desk position at a graveyard of a hotel?
what if the man who built the graveyard of a hotel hadn't retrieved my resume from the trash?
what if he hadn't interviewed me?
what if, in the mere act of shaking hands at the interview, we hadn't connected in some bizarre, cosmic way?
what if, in the process of turning the graveyard into a success, we hadn't fallen hopelessly in love?
what if he wasn't married?
what if i still was?
holy shit.