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the woman of my dreams

Lady, Something hit me when I saw you for the first time. You were vibrant, sparkling, full of life. Wearing a bright t-shirt with a pez dispenser on it. We chatted, I said I liked your shirt. There was a lot I liked about you in that moment, though I only mentioned the shirt. A friendship formed. I wondered if maybe it was going to be more than that—something in your marrow spoke to my marrow—but I also knew you were out of my league, so I didn't dare hope it and didn't dare pursue it. And somehow I stumbled into a relationship with someone else. We weren't a great fit for each other, but once it started I felt obligated to keep on with it. One day you and I went for a walk and you told me you thought something had been stirring between us and now you were confused because I was dating this other girl. I didn't know what to say. By then it seemed too late. The wheels were already in motion in the other direction. We said good-bye and parted ways—school ended for the year and I transferred out. Later that year I encountered you again: but this time in a dream. We hadn't seen each other for months. Things were going okay with the someone else: actually, I was barely surviving it. But in my loneliness I stuck with her. I wasn't myself enough to be able to end the relationship. I didn't know how to reclaim me and just kept going through the motions. But then you came to me that one night as I slept. In my dream I was in my childhood hometown, walking down the street. I saw you and you were with a man. You introduced us: "This is my husband," you said about him. When you said that, I broke down on the spot. Literally, crumpled onto the street. And the pain in the dream sliced so hard into the real world that I woke up crying. Twenty-two years old, alone in the dark, tears streaming down my my face. My heart breaking. Sobbing. Before that, I'd hidden the thought of you. Tried not to think about you: to do so was just too dangerous. But that dream planted you back in my heart. You've been there ever since.

@mattshawsome

Mar 17, 2025

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Domestic

I have this historical tendency where the second I get the sudden unmistakable feeling that a home is no longer forever, I stop tending to it. Dirty clothes pile up, the washed laundry sits unfolded, clutter accumulates, and I no longer wish to decorate. I disengage because my future is no longer tethered to this place; I’m being pulled forward from elsewhere and it’s only a matter of time. I apologize for my inactivity, my malaise; I tell them that I’m going through a rough time and struggling to fully function. I’m feeling burnt out after years treading water with a cinderblock tied to my ankle and I worry day and night about external forces beyond my control that threaten to sink us both. They tell me there’s always an excuse; that I’m perpetually miserable and dissatisfied; that I only care about myself. Of course, I’m not the only person living in this house. They’ve long since absconded from their share of the duty to this space we inhabit together, and yet I’m the one who is accused of giving up. Every week for a decade, I’ve been matching their socks into pairs, rolling up their underwear, and promptly hanging up their clothing fresh out of the dryer to prevent wrinkles from setting in—and they didn’t even notice. They told me they were perfectly happy rummaging through the laundry basket every day. Sometimes they will wash my clothes—delicates tossed in with T-shirts, jeans thrown in the dryer and tumbled until they shrink—but nobody has ever put away my laundry but me.

@taterhole

Feb 21, 2025

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War(w)hol(e): sleeping in a storm

She says there’s a tornado watch, and I shrug it off as I turn another page to my book. I just want to be reminded of what used to be real for a while before I join her to bed. I have 90 minutes before the dreams take me back for what I owe them. In the meantime, I’m with Ultra and Andy. I’m back in a place where the shitty instant movies meant something, not because they inherently meant something, but because a soup can was empty enough for the public to carry. Carry it they would, with enough means to make Ultra regret her own full stomach. The cans she had Andy sign could’ve funded her retirement, but the Factory was hungry. I’ve yet to create my food art that gets people interested in my shit movies. The wind starts growling against the windows in a way I haven’t heard in the decade I’ve lived here. The rain sounds sideways. I wake her from the bathroom as the wind has caught me on a break, and the living room is more window than wall. We’ve taken to sleeping on an air mattress in the living room floor by the windows. It was lovely under the tree in December, but now there’s no hiding why. It feels too real for a moment. I ask her to double check the radar. She says it’s fine, and she goes back to sleep. She already has me put on rain sounds with another apartment view on the TV nightly, though I don’t think either of us would have heard a difference had I turned it off now. Andy believed we would prefer the simulation. I‘m afraid he may be right. I’m afraid because I can’t control the one with a remote. Yes, that’s usually true, but for the moment I’m more afraid of the one outside my actual window that has no remote. Pontificating about simulacra or not, I’m afraid. As the storm starts to calm, the red light hitting my blinds from the LEDs is flashing. A fire truck is outside my window. Are these red lights more real, more meaningful? Do they make my fear more meaningful? The fire truck leaves (me). My 90 minutes have become 3 hours. My debt is greater. I can’t hide, and I’m afraid. It’s time to pay. I’ll simulate another violent death, wake up, and feel a little less convinced I’m about to be killed again since we’re in the living room. The lights help me see less of what isn’t there. I can see the front door bar intact with my own eyes. I’m safe enough to die in my sleep again. Good morning.

@spasi

Feb 16, 2025

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Starting over

“Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage.” — Anaïs Nin This is uncharacteristically raw and personal, even for me, and pretty heavy! I know many of you have seen me posting through it and I feel safe to talk about it openly now that I’ve safely landed at the start of my new life. It’s honestly even a little bit embarrassing but I think it’s important to share. I’ve never publicly mentioned it on here, but I have a husband; as of Friday, we’d have been together for 11 years, and we’ve been married for 3 years as of 2/22. I realize now that I wanted to explore what I looked like outside of my relationship with him because I had lost that. This is why PI.FYI has been so meaningful to me as a space to express myself and connect with people—to rediscover my voice. I had been living a lie this entire time, to others but worst of all to myself. He’s been verbally and emotionally abusive, physically but without touching me, to the point that every day I spent with him I was in danger. I’ve been shrinking myself and walking on eggshells to avoid making him insecure and provoking his casual put-downs and fits of rage, while hanging on for dear life to the threads of good I could see. I’ve wanted so badly to leave, more than anything, but I felt like there was no way out and that this was just something I would need to endure indefinitely—but someone who is so very dear to me helped me see that I have wings to fly, not by acting as my savior but by reminding me of my own power. The emotional safety they built and the gentle care they showed me made me feel like I could open up to them. With their encouragement I was brave enough to tell the truth to my friends, my family, my boss, and they have received me with warm, loving and open arms and rallied to support and protect me. The financial and  logistical aspects were the most intimidating to me and it’s going to be tough for a while but I’m going to be better than okay! Now I’m opening up to you. This isn’t the only abuse I’ve suffered in my life, and my old therapist told me she believed it was my mission to share my strength and light with others to inspire them and show them that change is possible. I hope that by sharing this, I can reach even just one person who is going through something similar and show that they are not alone, and they are not weak. People with certain backgrounds may be more vulnerable to abuse, but it can happen to anyone. It thrives in darkness, shame, and isolation—and breaking that silence is the first step toward freedom. Leaving is the scariest thing I have ever done but I have so many angels around me, and I am endlessly grateful. Thank you for being here with me 💌

@taterhole

Mar 16, 2025

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Never changing

My dad teases me about how when I was a little kid, my favorite thing to do when I was on the landline phone with somebody—be it a relative or one of my best friends—was to breathlessly describe the things that were in my bedroom so that they could have a mental picture of everything I loved and chose to surround myself with, and where I sat at that moment in time. Perfectly Imperfect reminds me of that so thanks for always listening and for sharing with me too 💌

@taterhole

Feb 23, 2025

🕊

Finally Quitting the job that you hate

Schedule sent my resignation email for the morning, effective immediately ✅💅

@taterhole

Feb 27, 2025