I wish I never had to sleep again.

Not because I’m some lunatic insomniac or because I’m dying to run on the money-mill every hour; that cockamamie niche is a quick sprint to regret. I just really hate dreaming. Dreams lead to daydreams—daydreams, you’ll realize, wink towards hope, and hope, if it starts warming up, it eventually crumbles to heartbreak. Heartbreak makes for a headache.

I know that headache like godforsaken crackhead.

I once dreamed the same dream every night. It was hell. It was of this girl in my college literature class named Franny. She always came to class five minutes early, struggling under a turquoise backpack probably tripling her weight. Anyway, she would set her bag on the tabletop very delicately and just sit down, not a ‘hey’ or ‘hello’ to anyone. She just sat there with a spear for a spine.

I always showed up six minutes early, just because I loved turning around and asking about her morning, and I loved the shy smile she gave me. Every conversation we had, even if it only existed for a minute, had me smiling for the rest of the day. The night, too; I relived them in my dreams.

Then I started dreaming about her during the day. Couldn’t hardly read a textbook without getting excited all over, and trembling, and having to stand up a and walk around. So one day, I figured, I’d better ask this little lady out. To the movies, or something easy. Something comfortable. So I wore my best shoes— the only shoes I’d ever bought that weren’t ‘gently used’—and my favorite sweater vest, and I went to meet her for breakfast in the cafeteria.

She had breakfast at 8:30 on Monday, Wednesdays and Fridays. Tuesdays and Thursdays she ate at either 9 or 9:30. Is it creepy to know that? I don’t think so. I think it’s caring. Anyway, I felt like I had stepped out of a fashion magazine that morning, pure suave, like a secret agent from those spy movies. Real slick, clean shaven. My confidence was like a bomb.

Franny’s’ sitting at this table, right? Wearing this white rain jacket that pampers her to royalty. Anyway, some moron is sitting across her, but I don’t notice. All I see is Franny and her white rain jacket and I’m imagine holding her cute hand in the rain.

So I stand next to her. Our relationship is close enough by now that I can cut the fluff, so I say, “Hey Franny, wanna catch a movie Saturday?”

She looks up at me, and I swear her bright eyes shrunk. No shy smile this time. The guy across from her chokes yellow, undercooked eggs. “You serious, dude?” He says, and he says dude like it’s an insult. Like a moron would. Franny just looked down at her wet, syrup soaked pancakes and picks at her thumbnail.

The jerk laughs and looks from Franny, to me. He laughs again. “I think this flake wants your love, Franny! Ha!”

That caught me off guard. I really hate being called a flake. I’d kill a man who called me a flake, if it was legal. “Franny, who’s this yellow-bellied, rotten, corny crap?”

Now he chokes on his tongue. Like, literally chokes, spits speckles of egg all over Franny’s cheeks. He looks at me. “Listen, dude: You’re out of shape. Out of place. Your shoes…they’re out of style. The only thing you’re in is inbred! Ha!”

And Franny snorted at that, a snort that ripped through a tight mouth regardless of how hard she tried to conceal it.

I suddenly felt like I had lost all my blood and my hope turned purple.

I stormed back to my dorm. I slammed my head against the wall, procuring a headache that made my skull feel pregnant. I still hate myself for it.

So I sit in this chair and hope I never have to dream again. Sleep leads to dreams, and dreams—no matter how innocent—lead to terrible hurt.