(Copied out of my paper journal, written at about 9 this morning.)
Approximately once every million years or so, I have a dream that I actually remember. I just woke up from one of those dreams.
———Wayne’s World noises———
Nick and I were sitting in the living room of an apartment that was a few floors up on a street that looked sort of like Commonwealth Avenue, but wasn’t. It was a very bright, sunny day, and the living room had a wall of huge windows facing the street/mall (as in, park). Nick looked down out the window and saw a black Viper/Spyder/Corvette convertible-type-liquid-hotness-on-wheels and said, “That’s the car that they’re using in the new Poison video, right? Some kinda Chevy?”
I look out the window and fall down stammering about the liquid hotness on the street in front of our apartment building, and in partial disbelief that he just called it “some kinda Chevy.” I start searching up and down the street. “Where’d the guy go that was driving it? Maybe it was Bret Michaels!”
“Oh, he’s in the bathroom, but I didn’t recognize him.”
I get up off the floor and wait near the living room doorway so that I can hear when the bathroom door opens. In just a few seconds, out walks Bret Michaels in FULL-ON BM ATTIRE… cowboy hat, black leather pants, boots, light brown leather jacket; my Dad probably could have recognized him as Bret Michaels, and he says things like “Steinfeld” and “Paul McCarthy.” Oh, Bret was also wearing pinkish-purple pearl lipstick.
I step in his path to the door, we hugged, and I say, “I don’t mean to be annoying, but…” and I start to move the brim of his cowboy hat out of the way so that I can kiss Bret Michaels… so that I can tell everyone in dreamland about how Bret Michaels was in my apartment and we kissed.
He took off his cowboy hat and was wearing a blue bandanna over his still long, but now also sporadically curly, blond hair. The kiss felt like some old cakey lipstick that my mom gave me ages ago, leaving my dream-self to suspect if perhaps he wasn’t snooping around my bathroom.
“I’m really sorry, you probably have to go, and I don’t mean to keep being annoying…” and he pulled out a pen and asked me, “Where do you want it?”
“Shit, I don’t know if I have anything that can be signed.”
“Just let me sign your body like all the other girls.” He sounded annoyed.
“No, that always washes off eventually, and I need to be able to prove this to my mom.” I started walking toward the bedroom, and dug around looking for a piece of paper that wasn’t a Walgreen’s receipt. “Sorry about the mess, I have a hard time putting laundry away sometimes.”
“That’s okay, the bathroom was immaculate.”
I found my blue journal (the one I hand wrote this story in this morning), and then spent even more time looking for a blank spot for him to autograph. While searching, I SWEAR that I passed something that said “Justin Timberlake.” Finally, I located blank space, and had Bret sign. I thanked him and we hugged again.
I noticed that he was looking towards the door to the back balcony, and I apologized for not having a back stairwell that he could sneak out of. “You could shimmy down the building, but you’re wearing lots of leather and that might draw attention.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bret said, “I’m pretty unassuming.” And then he left.
———Wayne’s World noises———
Yeah, Freud… have fun with that one.
PS - I look different.
