When I took a filmmaking class at NYU one summer about five lifetimes ago, a classmate opined that the most boring conversation topics included dreams and crushes. She was angry most of the time, and scared me with her unwavering brow-studded scowl so I listened when she spoke, and her words stayed with me. So I'm not going to bore you with my deranged and possibly obscene crush on Peter from The Family Guy, but I do apologize in advance for maybe boring you with this dream, because it alarms me and I don't want to forget it:I am lying on a bed with Bryan, maybe in L.A. There is a new breed of shark that anyone can own and bring to life like a sea monkey. I hold the moon-colored baby shark and watch its pink tail retreat and emerge from its body after I have unwittingly brought it to life. I think, "Please don't bite me." Bryan and I have to go. We'll run late if we have to bring the shark, if we have to look after it like a baby. So I suffocate it in the pillow. I kill the shark, and though I reel from guilt, I tell myself that I'll be grateful later, when it doesn't grow up to be larger than me and tear me apart with its teeth. Then I wake up.
So, uh, yeah.
