Last night in a dream I got to play tongue hockey with
Jenna Fischer. You know how dreams are; you're in some church talking about
pipe organs and damn if there isn't a bedroom right off the parish hall. And then Jenna walks out to get me, wearing nice, tight jeans and tight gray longsleeve sweater. She looks completely, utterly
ripe, and wants to see me in
our room. It's big and she has magazines on the bed, about where we want to go,
bridal gowns and how we need to plan this and that. I'm thinking
"woah, this looks serious", so I kiss her. And oh boy is she
ready and so there we are necking on a bed we've clearly shared before, and this is feeling really sweet when my conscious takes over and I hear myself shout:
"This isn't fucking real!"
And now I'm awake and my cat is fleeing the bed and Jenna is way, way gone. I realize that I'm just depressed from a long series of romantic failures, but it's really, really messed up when you're too wound up to just lay back and enjoy a good wet dream.
After all, it's not like I'm going to get another shot tonight.
Damn.