Failed college again last night. Like a maniac I dug through my backpack looking for a history book so I could study for the final, which wouldn't matter if you count the first two exams I skipped. I remembered seeing it in my locker, but where the hell is my locker? What university supplies its students with lockers and how did my mother pay for it? I sure as hell didn't get a scholarship -- I'm failing, for crying out loud.
It occurs to me that these dreams have replaced another reoccuring dream about not finishing high school. I'd get a letter, hey, surprise, you needed another class, give us that diploma and get back in here.
On to my favorite sex dream. L-rock-a-thon, you're familiar with this one.
Johnny Depp (yes) and I are making out on the floor of some abandoned studio or something. The floors are wooden, the walls are white, and all the furniture must be in storage. But there are sheets everywhere and we're rolling around in them, Johnny and I. We do it. If only I could recall the details, but alas, I only recall the swollen sensation of my loins upon waking. After we're done, he rolls away and gets up to split.
"Hey," he says. "Don't forget to tell your friends I nailed you."
I won't, Johnny. I won't.
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