So, I was very tired tonight. Very tired. And I took a nap instead of watching tennis. In fact, I slept to the annoying sound of the Teen Choice Awards in the background. (Yes. The Teen Choice Awards. And has Hilary Duff now joined the Anorexics-Are-Us club?)
And I had the best dream about Brad Pitt, set during the awards. Don't ask me why. Was he even mentioned? I know he didn't appear. But he was the one in my dream, not Ashton Kutcher (who was right there in the front row with Demi) or Chad Michael Murray (is he an idiot, or is that just me?) or Adam Sandler (!).
I was face to face with him in an alcove near a bar, and it was either during the awards or at an after-party. We were bitching about how the 'red carpet' was the lamest we had ever seen for any awards show. I was in his lap, my face against his, my mouth near his ear. And I was making this purring sound. I was constantly making this sound, and he wanted to know why -- and I said because I was going to come.
At one point my nipple was in his mouth. (And for anybody who thinks it's strange for my nipple to make an appearance in a public place, you don't know me well. See you Friday night.)
I don't think I did come. Or maybe I did and did and did. But Brad had that short blonde hair. And those lips. And those fabulous shoulders. And I'll just take that memory to bed with me and let it do the trick.