All I have to do is dream
Kim doesn't understand why I have a BLOG. She also doesn't understand why I must always call it a BLOG and capitalize it too. She says no one wants to read about my life. I really can't argue with her there but I must say, I have fun writing in it anyway. Kim says she likes to look at pictures people take and post but since this BLOG is unable to do that, I guess she won't be visiting my journal anytime soon.
I've decided I am going to try and write in this thing every damn day. Well, I haven't really decided this, I just realized I needed to since it takes at least 45 minutes to bang one of these puppies out. So that's about 45 minutes of my useless life taken up and this pushes my work day ahead faster.
I also think that journals are embarrassing. I learned this after I came across my middle school diary two months ago. I read the entire thing and winced through the majority of entries. It was really sad what my life revolved around then. What's even sadder is that my life still revolves around these same things.
With that being said, I am now going to indulge your fantasy of knowing what I dreamt about last night:
I'm in a wedding gown (already this is a nightmare) and I'm standing at the makeshift altar in someone's very nice backyard. There are a lot of guests but I don't know them. I think they're the extras from the Wedding Singer. It's at the point of no return when my groom has to slide the wedding band on my finger. I put out my left hand and he gets furious. My engagement ring is gone. "What happened to your ring?" he demands. He's not very intimidating since his voice is higher than mine. I stare up at the green eyes and the furrowed very large eyebrows. I put on my best innocent face (which we all know doesn't exist) and I try to tell Clay Aiken that it fell into a huge vat of pudding. Then I blame some fat girl for eating it by mistake and I was just going to wait until she pooped it out. A ripple of outrage descends through the crowd and Clay steps away from me. I notice Tom Cavanagh in the audience spring out of his chair and head straight for the Wedding Getaway Vehicle where there are strings of shoes attached and a covered sign. I turn back to Clay so we can continue but he points at me and screams, "This is about Ed! It's always been about Ed!" I lean in and correct him that "Ed" isn't real. His name is Tom. This is when it switches perspectives. I'm sitting in my den in my surf girl pajamas and my dad is next to me in the crook of the couch. We're watching all this wedding drama unfold on TV. This is obviously a very bad made-for-TV movie. Dad turns to me as he gets what just happened in this POS movie. The bride set it all up and he smiles knowingly at Tom as he unveils the sign which says, "Dude, we just got married." Dad says, "He got invited to his own wedding." I turn back to the TV to watch Tom run in slow-mo up the aisle, paparazzi taking pictures the whole way, and see that Clay is no longer at the altar.
Then the "Tom Cruise has gone insane" song starts blaring. I turn over in bed to whack the snooze button. I love you Todd Pettengil but it is too damn early to listen to your songs, especially if you're interrupting my wedding to an already married Tom Cavanagh.
I've decided I am going to try and write in this thing every damn day. Well, I haven't really decided this, I just realized I needed to since it takes at least 45 minutes to bang one of these puppies out. So that's about 45 minutes of my useless life taken up and this pushes my work day ahead faster.
I also think that journals are embarrassing. I learned this after I came across my middle school diary two months ago. I read the entire thing and winced through the majority of entries. It was really sad what my life revolved around then. What's even sadder is that my life still revolves around these same things.
With that being said, I am now going to indulge your fantasy of knowing what I dreamt about last night:
I'm in a wedding gown (already this is a nightmare) and I'm standing at the makeshift altar in someone's very nice backyard. There are a lot of guests but I don't know them. I think they're the extras from the Wedding Singer. It's at the point of no return when my groom has to slide the wedding band on my finger. I put out my left hand and he gets furious. My engagement ring is gone. "What happened to your ring?" he demands. He's not very intimidating since his voice is higher than mine. I stare up at the green eyes and the furrowed very large eyebrows. I put on my best innocent face (which we all know doesn't exist) and I try to tell Clay Aiken that it fell into a huge vat of pudding. Then I blame some fat girl for eating it by mistake and I was just going to wait until she pooped it out. A ripple of outrage descends through the crowd and Clay steps away from me. I notice Tom Cavanagh in the audience spring out of his chair and head straight for the Wedding Getaway Vehicle where there are strings of shoes attached and a covered sign. I turn back to Clay so we can continue but he points at me and screams, "This is about Ed! It's always been about Ed!" I lean in and correct him that "Ed" isn't real. His name is Tom. This is when it switches perspectives. I'm sitting in my den in my surf girl pajamas and my dad is next to me in the crook of the couch. We're watching all this wedding drama unfold on TV. This is obviously a very bad made-for-TV movie. Dad turns to me as he gets what just happened in this POS movie. The bride set it all up and he smiles knowingly at Tom as he unveils the sign which says, "Dude, we just got married." Dad says, "He got invited to his own wedding." I turn back to the TV to watch Tom run in slow-mo up the aisle, paparazzi taking pictures the whole way, and see that Clay is no longer at the altar.
Then the "Tom Cruise has gone insane" song starts blaring. I turn over in bed to whack the snooze button. I love you Todd Pettengil but it is too damn early to listen to your songs, especially if you're interrupting my wedding to an already married Tom Cavanagh.