You know the ones. The dreams that aren't dreams. The ones that leave you scared for days. It goes down quick — I wake with a start and wonder if I'm really as much of a mess as I just was. Does Beyoncé really have a crush on me? Would she really reunite Destiny's Child to serenade a terribly unhip minivan-driver who owns a grand total of two hip-hop records (both composed by the same pale-white Brit). Or, on another night, am I really the type of fella who would enrage a co-worker to the point where she would yell, "YOU ARE A MORON! YOU WILL NEVER BE AS IMPORTANT AS I AM!" Wait, don't answer that.
So what does it matter? Enh. Nothing. Right? Right? So why am I dodging the coworker? Why am I working on my best Jay-Z impersonation? Why do I think this is worthy of a blog post? Why am I following the same bedtime ritual every night, hoping to recreate the best of the too-real non-realities — the one that ends in smiles and giggles, the one that keeps me grinning for days?
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