Last night I dreamed that I had a torrid affair with Clive Owen. Except it wasn't much of a torrid affair. Sure, there was one point where we were lying in a hotel bed somewhere (with another woman, strangely) but we were all fully clothed and just sort of chatting. Naturally, I decided to explain to Clive about how he was my Pretend Celebrity Boyfriend. I made a big deal of the fact that he had been my PCB since before he was very well known in the States. I assume I was trying to impress him with either my loyalty or my prescience. That part is probably pretty realistic. I mean, confronted with Clive in the flesh I would certainly go out of my way to make a total ass of myself. That's just how I roll.
Eventually it came out that I wasn't having a
torrid affair rather boring little chat with fantasy-man Clive after all, but rather with a Clive look-alike. I would have been ok with that, I mean, it isn't like I'm interested in his mind, but nothing ever came of it because I woke up am happily married.
It's a little depressing to realize that I am never going to have a hot, scandalous affair with a hotty movie star. I mean, not that the odds of that were all that high to begin with, but now that I'm married and a mama and have the flabby belly to prove it I would say the odds have definitely gone from slimity-slim-slim to none. I suppose I should adjust my thinking and embrace the idea that maybe someday I'll run into Clive and we'll go have coffee and talk about our kids. And maybe he'll let me lick him, just a little bit. But probably not.
(Hey, new passphrase, peeps. Check it.)