I continued. “Of course, then I was terrified that perhaps now everything that happened to me in a dream would actually happen to me in real life, so I could potentially wake up wearing a dress made out of pickles at my high school. Or with arms made out of marshmallows, or with a leg missing. Then, about a week later, Victor and I were lying in bed when suddenly there was a scratching noise coming from the window above the headboard, which sounded like a knife scraping deliberately down the wall. I was paralyzed with fear, but I slowly turned my face up toward the window, and that’s when I saw THE GIGANTIC ASS OF MY CAT. Turns out that our fat-ass cat, Posey, was trying to perch on the tiny window ledge, but he didn’t fit, so he had one of his back legs clawing desperately at the wall as he slowly lost his footing, and that’s when I figured out what had happened. My enormous, fat cat had fallen on my face and scratched me with his huge, catty talons while I was dreaming about serial killers. And that’s why ten years later I still have this scar.”
Then everyone looked at me in bafflement, and Victor made me leave, swearing to never take me to another dinner party again. It was hard to argue with him, but I did point out that the party was kind of a win, because no one saw my vagina. Victor says we have different definitions of what a “win” is. Then he told me that stories about serial killers who are really just cats are now at the top of the list of “shit-I’m-not-allowed-to-talk-about,” and that’s when I really got a little indignant, because technically he kind of owes me, because he came out looking like a damn American hero in that serial-killer story for charging through the house to kill a serial killer who was actually a cat. Then he pointed out that cats aren’t serial killers, and I retorted that technically cats are more dangerous than serial killers because they are too fluffy to be suspects, and that if Posey had landed a few inches lower he could have sliced my jugular. Basically, Posey is the silent killer. Much like cholesterol.
I tried to calm Victor by explaining that when we got home I could patch this all up with a witty e-mail to his coworkers that had nothing to do with getting stabbed in the face by anyone.
“And then what?” Victor asked.
“And then,” I explained, “it will be fine, because I’ll be so charming that they’ll forgive me. Besides, most of the people who were there seemed drunk anyway, and there’s no way they’ll believe I actually told that horrible of a story when they wake up tomorrow.” But then Victor pointed out that even if I did manage to convince them of my normalness through e-mail, I would just end up doing this again, and he was right, which is why next time I’m at a dinner party I’m just going to pretend I have laryngitis and insist that everyone bring their cell phones so I can simply text them. Except, I grudgingly admitted to Victor, I’ll probably panic and tell the first person I see that I can’t talk because a leopard ate my larynx, and then I’ll use my phone to show people how much the magnified human larynx looks like a vagina. Victor looked at me in defeat and I pulled out my phone to find larynx videos to prove my point. And that was when Victor sighed deeply and made me stop talking to him. Which is to be expected, I guess.
Me, hiding in the bathroom.
I’ll apologize to him tomorrow.
By e-mail.
Thanks for the Zombies, Jesus
Car conversation with Victor:
ME: Oh my God, did you see the name of that cemetery we just passed? “Resurrection Cemetery.” What a horrible name for a cemetery.
VICTOR: It’s because they believe in the resurrection of believers, dumb-ass.
ME: Still. Some things just shouldn’t be resurrected. Just what we need is a bunch of damn zombies wandering the earth.
VICTOR: That’s not “resurrection.” That’s “reanimation.”
ME: Same difference. Although I guess “Reanimation Cemetery” would sound way more creepy.
VICTOR: It’s not the same difference. Zombies are reanimated, but they don’t have their previous mental capacity, so it’s not a resurrection. Technically that’s a “zombification.”
ME: Well, if you want to get all technical, then how about vampires?
VICTOR: Um . . . they’re fine?
ME: What I mean is, vampires have their “previous mental capacity,” thus by your logic they are “resurrected.” Might as well name it “Jesus-Is- Bringing-You-Vampires Cemetery.”
VICTOR: No. That’s not the same thing, because when you resurrect someone from the grave they aren’t undead.
ME: No, they are TOTALLY undead. That’s like the very definition of the undead.
VICTOR: No. A vampire is undead. The resurrected aren’t undead.
ME: I think you don’t know what “undead” means.
VICTOR: I THINK YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT “UNDEAD” MEANS!
ME: Oh my God, calm down, Darwin. Don’t get all crazy just ’cause I threw a vampire monkey wrench in your faulty Jesus-zombie logic.
VICTOR: [sigh] Look, there are all sorts of exceptions you aren’t considering. You can reanimate someone without making them a real “zombie.” For instance, you could bring them back simply to perform a task.
ME: Yeah. And that’s called a zombie.
VICTOR: No, because it wouldn’t crave brains. It’d just have a job to do. Look it up.
ME: Oh, I will look it up. I’ll look it up in The Dictionary of Shit That Doesn’t Exist.
VICTOR: [glower]
Five minutes of angry silence
ME: So, I was talking to the organ donation lady at work the other day and she told me a secret way that you can’t not give away my organs.
VICTOR: You know what? I fucking dare you to make less sense.