Dreamin'

I swear to God, this is how my dream went:

Hugh Hefner is taking me to my sister's house. It's not the one she owns now, but a big, old dusty, dilapidated dump she rented years ago. I am in her eldest daughter's bedroom, looking at my reflection in an antique wall mirror.

I am horrified; there I am, in a bunny costume, bunny ears on top of my head, and I am clad in a skimpy, tight bunny outfit which has pushed my boobs up to only a few inches lower than my shoulders. I turn three-quarters around and check out the bottom half of my bum cheeks hanging out of the costume and, yup, there it is, the large cottonball bunny tail stuck in the middle of my buttocks. I am more than horrified; I am mortified, "How will I explain this to my kids?" I wonder. Then I realise, "Wait. Thy know I'm with Hef. What else can they expect at this point?" And all seems well.


A few nights later, I dream I am at a posh outdoor buffet with my date, Donald Trump, sitting across from me.
"Beej," sez the Donald, "bring that chafing dish and follow me."
I pick up the silver serving dish (maybe gold? This is THE Donald, after all..) and follow his gray pompadour down the long table. He stops and tells me to ladle some food onto a guests plate. I look down and guess who it is? Yup, it's Hef, in a ruby red satin smoking jacket. (God, I hope he's not jealous because I'm with Donald!)

At least in my dreams, I am surrounded by rich, old, important men.