Why Men Suck at Dreaming

The trouble with having a man for a friend was the dreaming; men just plain suck at dreaming.

I dreamed of having a lifetime of book suggestions, someone to correct my "occasional" punctuation mistakes, and enjoying challenging conversations.

I dreamed of a friend I could trust with the things I can't share - you know, how I'm not the perfect mother, nor the perfect wife, and I block my father's emails because they make my blood boil.

I dreamed of breathing out and breathing in, reading poetry and history and the classics I'll never understand, and of watching the latest movie, or the oldest ones I'd somehow missed, and arguing over which was the best.

"And you dreamed about?"

 "Boobs."

I dreamed of staying up all night to finish a book so I could say "I finished first!" and taking bets on who the next Supreme Court Justice would be - you still owe me a quarter, by the way.

I dreamed of knowing you would never laugh at my needy side, nor poke fun at my insecurities, and would never need to lie, because "What would be the point?"

I dreamed of being able to be stupid, and silly, and childishly naive, because I sometimes am.

"And you dreamed about?"

"Boobs."

I dreamed of receiving critiques worth reading, and commiserating over rejection letters, sharing new finds, and learning where that story about the sailor would end up.

I dreamed of one day cheering from the sidelines as you received the National Book Award, or because you finally finished the shitty first draft.

All this time I dreamed we were the best of friends,
And all you dreamed about were boobs?
I guess I'm just happy they weren't mine.

Maybe men just suck, period.