I’m fairly certain that, if I was a dream talker, Jess would have heard the following statements from me last night:
- No, I don’t want your Menorah, and get your purse off the table.
- Yeah, but there are like, seven fucking alligators down there, and they can climb trees!
- I think they went underground, but I don’t really know. Oh, and watch out for that owl over there.
- Updated (because I remembered about it while walking to class): No, don’t straighten your hair; Noah agrees with me that your hair looks better curly.
- Since this is technically a rocket, if I make it start, which way will the fire go?
- Stop checking things out; we are not at Walmart. And stop putting Snickers in my cart, I’m already buying you a typewriter.
- They just interrupted Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture with Brahms. That is not fucking happening!
- At the end of the stairs, let’s all do the High School Musical jump so that they’ll be surprised.
- None of the doors have handles. (Guy in dream): I think they’re playing Handel.
What. The. Fuck.
I then had Lady Gaga’s ‘Bad Romance’ and Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture stuck in my head at the same time. And when I checked my computer this morning, I was informed that it was negative eight degrees Fahrenheit. What?
Today is going to be a crazy day.