It’s quiet down in westerbergville, so instead of a list of what people are talking about I am going to re-tell about the dream I had the other night. Feel free to add your own weird dreams in the comments, especially if they involve nudity.
This might come as a surprise to a lot of people coming from the woman who calls her web site I Will Dare, but I don’t have sexual, groupie-like feelings towards Paul Westerberg. In fact the thought of it kind of oogs me out.
So now you’ll understand my general feeling of heebie-jeebieness with regards to the awful sex dream I had about Mr. Westerberg last night. It wasn’t even a sex dream so much as a want-to-have-sex dream.
I am gagging a bit just recalling it.
So PW and I were in, perhaps an office building, a dorm, or a hotel with the room’s door open. People were milling about outside and he was trying to plan his next tour. I was helping, I guess. See, I wanted him to do three shows in Chicago and he only wanted to do one. I decided to con him into seeing things my way by rubbing my naked breasts all over him.
It worked. Barf.
And now whenever I close my eyes, all I can see is Paul in those blue sunglasses looking up at me from beneath my breasts.