Out Of My Dreams
During my nap yesterday I dreamed that I met a guy I really hit it off with. It was unusually realistic--he even gave me his full name and phone number, and I remembered a lot of details when I woke up. It was so good I went back to sleep after waking up and wouldn't get up until morning.
Naturally, the name doesn't show up on a white pages search of that metropolitan area, and Google comes up empty. But maybe, just maybe, he's going to do the same search for me when he gets to work this morning.
I'm too susceptible to my own bullshit.
Funny, I woke up this morning thinking to myself, "Did I give Mike my full name and phone number last night?"
Mike, you've been sleepdating again. There are cures for that, you know.
Now, is your name Mark? Do you live in Chicago?
I didn't think so. Faker. You're worse than Elijah Wood.
This is my fear, that the man of my dreams is exactly that.
Even worse, now I have Debbie Gibson's "Only in My Dreams" looping endlessly in my head.
Hey, I tried. A for effort, right?
To whose bullshit should one be more susceptible than one's own?