last night i had a baffling dream: i was sleeping over at a house owned by ashlee simpson and whatever-her-husband's-name-is. why would brain do this to me? why sleep on the couch of people who mean so very little to me? if i had my druthers (what exactly ARE druthers? why would i want them? what effect do they have on my life's choices?) i would certainly not waste them (the druthers, see?) on spending time at ashlee simpson's house.
i might go hang out with michael jackson, for the sheer unadulterated weirdness of it all.
or at alan rickman's, for the yumminess.
or even celine dion's, just to see the many disturbing ways in which she, a french canadian chanteuse, is managing to channel liberace, a polish-italian gay pianist.
there are so many options for hanging out with the stars. but no. brain, in its infinite ability to baffle me completely, has chosen to give me a night on ashlee simpson's couch. thanks a lot, brain.
things managed to improve, however, when it turned out that it was halloween and i had no costume so i drew tattoos all over my arms, put on false eyelashes and went as a tough drag queen. good brain, nice brain.