November 03, 2009
The dream is always the same...
I loved that line from Risky Business! But *my* dreams are hardly ever the same. Last night, I dreamt I got to visit Sommer. She and I went shopping in Rehobeth Beach, at a thrift store, where I discovered a to-die-for, black-and-white leather motorcycle vest. One with a winding swirl of blazing white on the black asphalt of the leather. I was about to buy the vest, when I saw this young blonde girl looking at me. And I realized she had wanted the vest first. So I handed it over, with a crisp new $10 bill. The vest only cost $19.99.
Before I could blink, I was back at University. But not in that hideous way of being late for class, or naked for a test. I was out drinking with friends—pounding shots. Tequila, obviously*. And I got drunk in my dream—I'm not sure if I've ever been drunk in my sleep before. It was the oddest sensation. Because I wasn't actually drunk—just sleep drunk.
I woke up dazed.
Which is where I am right now.
Coffee will kill that beast. Back when the java's hot and my brain is on.
P.S. *I received a mass email from an acquaintance's teenage daughter the other day, inviting me to her performance of the Nutcracker. "For those who don't know me," the email stated, "I'm a ballerina. Obviously." I don't know why, but that just cracked me up. I've been throwing "obviously" into my conversations ever since then. Because I'm a bitch. Obviously.