I had a dream about you. You were my main competition for the 2014 Rocking Chair Race Championship Series. It’s the most movement you can make without actually moving anywhere. I won that race—and I lost—because no surprise, we all tied.
I had a dream about you. You were drinking apple juice, and I was drinking horse piss, though the spectators in the stadium couldn’t tell who was drinking what, even though one million dollars for guessing correctly was on the line.
I had a dream about you. The lettuce in my sandwich was crunchier than your conversation, and all I could hear when you spoke was myself chewing. You made such a tasty conversation that I can’t even remember what you said.
I had a dream about you. When our talks ended, we left off with leftovers. I stuffed our conversation in Tupperware, but you just left it out to rot and decompose.
I had a dream about you. I was passing out business cards the size of billboards, and you had a mouth as wide as a sperm whale, though your conversational range was as narrow as a midget’s urethra. Your Word of Mouth Value was as powerful as a limp...
I had a dream about you. I was running barefoot on the beach, and you were chasing me because you were a cop, and I was naked. I couldn’t believe you tried to arrest me. What, is it a crime to run with no shoes?
I had a dream about you. We were going to change the world. But instead you changed your clothes and changed your mind about going to the bar, so I ended up crying on your sofa until my unicorn arrived to take me home.
I had a dream about you. You shot me with a shooting star, but I was impervious because I was wearing a suit of armor made out of cynicism.
I had a dream about you two. You both looked like John Travolta, but you danced like Scientology in a can.
I had a dream about you. I was a robot that looked like Robert the Bruce, and you were a Bruce that looked like a Robert. You also danced like a robot, and I danced like a metal mannequin, so we bonded.
I had a dream about you. You wanted to go skydiving, and I tried to talk you out of it because it is too dangerous. I couldn’t risk you dying without having repaid me the money I lent you—plus, interest, of course.
I had a dream about you. You were a meow in a vacuum, and I was a bark on carpet. I told your parents I’d have you home by ten, but that was a lie, because you were homeless.
I had a dream about you. You wore a cowboy boot, and I wore a better fitting hat. You were in a white dress, like a wedding dress, only weddinger. I was wearing a twisted bicycle frame, and the pastor could not look past it and he refused to marry us...
I had a dream about you. No words were exchanged, but we spoke with our eyes. My eyes said, “I love you,” while your eyes told me, “I’m asleep.” You always were more romantic than me.
I had a dream about you. My office was a closet, and your office was a huge fur factory. I wanted a raise, and you got the elevator.
I had a dream about you. You told me you liked roller coasters, so I introduced you to a midget who wasn’t tall enough to ride them, so you could feel the shame of living a life of such privilege.
I had a dream about you. You fell into my arms like a 120-pound sack of gold coins. So I did what any respectable lover would do—I buried you in the backyard so nobody could steal you away from me.
I had a dream about you. It was raining, and you were anorexic and shaped like an umbrella. We fell in love like a desert has a dry sense of humor. I laughed so hard I got dehydrated and sunburned.