Normally, I hate reading posts about dreams because the dreams are either way too normal (I know I’m pretty dull, but I’ve never dreamed a Chekhov play) or way too long/rambling (much like this sentence), and you’re under no obligation to read it, but I promise: my dream is neither of those things.
As it started, I was working feverishly on my costume for tonight’s Carnival ball for the Mystic Krewe of Satyricon (in real life, one of the straps for my backpiece broke, so fixing it is Job One today), when the needle on my sewing machine hit a sequin and shattered. Before I could replace it, Carrie Bradshaw (not Sarah Jessica Parker, whose company I would probably enjoy, but Carrie Bradshaw, whom I would probably backhand all the way down 5th Avenue if I could) burst into my sewing room and whisked me away to the pool at her house, where her brother questioned my choice of swimwear and her insanely hot father peed on me. Then Carrie asked me a cagey question about a crazy old boyfriend, whom I may or may not have had in real life, and I woke up before I could strangle her.
And that’s pretty much the perfect dream in my book: a little reality, a little surreality, a little sex, and the near-death of an annoying gay icon.