Got some new pants today.

I don’t know why there are so many theories about Yume Nikki when it seems pretty straightforward to me.

Girl is isolated. Girl has terrible dreams of monsters and Hell. Girl is haunted by crippling anxiety, depression, loneliness, and violence.

Until the monsters in her mind tell her to kill herself.

But no, there’s something DEEPER than this. There has to be. Because WHY would she have those feelings? Why would she kill herself? How do we know that it’s real? No one would really do that.

Ha.

hahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

straitjacket with a mic in hand

He was known as G.

I met him several years ago through a lovely co-worker at a club in New York. They were dating at the time; he was an aspiring rapper and businessman and she was to be a psychologist. My co-worker was, and still is, one of the sweetest and most intelligent women I ever met. Conversely, G. had that dubious swagger that immediately told me he was nothing but trouble. But that was simply my own opinion and mattered little; I wasn’t dating him, she was, and as long as they were happy, I was happy.

So I was cordial and polite and this was around the time I was playing around with starting my own online baking business. It turns out that I have quite a talent for baking. I had brought in cookies for my co-workers and they were willing to buy them from me. That was it. I knew how I was going to survive in New York with my rent going up. But the issue is that while I had a big personality, I didn’t exactly have an equal amount of exposure to promote my business. 

That was where G came in. Once he ordered cookies from me and said that he could definitely see me as a popular caterer, especially since I was a woman of color in a field where the demand was almost infinite. He was also a businessman, selling merchandise with his name on it and for all intents and purposes, was doing quite well. I spoke to my co-worker, being the traditional prude that I am, and asked her if it was okay if he could help me out with my business. She enthusiastically agreed, saying that it would be great for me to get a leg up.

See? Totally lovely.

A couple of meetings later, G. was able to get me on a local radio show to promote my baking business. I was very nervous and immediately felt uncomfortable. Instead of mostly talking about my business, they were asking me if I did molly or took it. I nodded and smiled and played along all the while having no clue what molly was, as at that point the only drugs I was focused on were a shitton of tequila, a festering pool of misery, and nothing else. The interview was just...not what I was expecting. But it was okay! As a result of me going on the radio, I ended up getting a couple of other clients and even catered a record release party at the 40/40 Club. Which I wish meant more to me than it actually did; looking back, I realized that I simply didn’t have the confidence I needed to fit in that world. An obvious consequence of not taking care of me when I should have. The business wasn’t complex, not by a longshot, but given my capabilities, if I even had a teensy bit more self-esteem, the possibilities would have been endless.

Anyway, after that, he drove me home. And asked to meet up again for more.. personal reasons. I politely declined, knowing that he was seeing my co-worker and I wasn’t even attracted to him in the slightest. Fortunately, he left, and I went into my apartment with a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. There is something inherently complex about being propositioned by the significant other of someone you work with or are friends with. And this was also not long after my ex-boyfriend had cheated on me with my own best friend and was doing everything in his power to gaslight me into thinking that I was wrong for believing it was seven shades of fucked up. So I did what any normal, logical person would do in that situation. I drank my weight in whiskey and passed out in my bed.

A couple of days later, he contacted me and said he had another interview opportunity for my business. I pivoted, asking him how his girlfriend (my co-worker) was. He ignored it and asked when we could meet. I was vulnerable. I was desperate. I wanted to succeed. I asked him where he wanted to meet me. He said he would pick me up.

I remember wearing lipstick.

We went to a bar in Fort Greene. I ordered tequila. He insisted on paying. I tried to steer the conversation towards my business and what I wanted to happen with it. Because of my lack of confidence, however, I truly didn’t know what I wanted to do. I spoke in vague and uncertain terms. All I knew was that I loved to bake and I needed to survive in New York City, so the only thing I thought of doing was to sell my baked goods. It was that simple. And it was that mentality, that desire to just survive, and not thrive, would affect me for years to come.

He knew this. He knew that there was a power imbalance here. While he wasn’t necessarily a household name yet, his music videos got hundreds of thousands, if not millions of views on YouTube. His video for his single was so well produced that I believed he would be huge. And I had no interest in being famous; I just wanted to make enough money to pay my bills and actually enjoy doing it.

Realizing that I was getting nowhere, and that he was very obviously trying to make this a date, I asked him to take me home. It was late on a weeknight, and all I could think of was how much sleep I wasn’t going to get before work tomorrow. It was a complete waste of time and I was shaming myself for not seeing his true motives earlier.

 We walked to the car. He stopped me. He said,

“Do we have to go now?”

“Yes. I have work tomorrow.”

He came closer. I froze. I blinked and found myself against the car. I blinked again, and his arms were around me. Touching me. Massaging me. His hands went across my hips, my stomach, my breasts. They went down my thighs, and then shot up around my neck. I found myself wishing he would just strangle me to death and just get it over with. I wanted to die. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want any of this.

“Please. Please take me home,” I squealed.

“Why? You’re so beautiful...”

“I have work. I need to go to work tomorrow. Please?”

It wasn’t a statement. It was a plea. And he knew this. And with that knowledge, his job was complete.

“All right.”

And with another blink, I was in my bed, shocked. Violated. It wasn’t rape, it was molestation, minor sexual assault, right? It’s not a big deal. Women deal with this all the time. It could have been much much worse. I mean, all I could think of was what my co-worker would think. Should I tell her? I don’t want her to be hurt. I didn’t want her to think I was a slut. 

They broke up a few months later. I still have his song on my iPod.  

Thinking of making it the theme song to my series.