I had a dream the other night that my boyfriend (Brandon) was a finalist on American Idol. Being the loving, supportive girlfriend I am I hadn’t seen him perform even once. When I finally did decide to sit in the audience, he sang like Ben Folds and the microphone stand kept falling down so he had to sing on his knees.
David Cook was there making out with some Mexican chick and asked me to lay hands on him and pray that he would marry the right girl.
Did I mention that there was a box of chocolates in the bathroom and I wanted to steal one but this little black kid kept watching me so when he finally turned around I grabbed one and ran out?
Disclaimer: this dream is entirely true.
I am thinking about starting a blogspot-making public my story ideas and daily writings. Would you read it? Oh who cares, I didn’t ask you anyway.
I want to be on the creative team at PIXAR. I want to help come up with character ideas and the adventures they go on. But the best idea I’ve ever had was Sam Spaghetti-the story of a young boy with noodles for limbs, meatballs for eyes and a breadstick for a mouth and his daily struggle not to get eaten.
Oh and facebook should limit the number of “I have the most perfect spouse ever! Seriously, so wonderful!” status updates. Can we say overcompensating? we get it. now stop.
