and I didn’t fall out of bed once.
I’m staying at some poshedy posh hotel with people I work for, most likely folks connected to music somehow. For some crazy reason (I can’t remember why now but you know it made total sense then), I can’t have my own room. Instead I’m given the keys to the hotel pool area to bathe and spend the night (cue the canned pornosonics).
And there sitting poolisde, on your typically hotelish ratan, is Eminem.
We hit it off, we really did. He’s a nice guy. He’s cute. He’s smart. He’s a famous pop icon. He likes me. He likes the star tattoos on my wrists.
He puts the moves on me. He tries to kiss me. I push him away, tell him no, and that I’m married to the man I love.
Which is true, but seriously, can you believe it? In my dream… I coulda had some make believe with Eminem but no, I remain faithful, even in fantasy land.
On one hand I’m proud of myself, on the other hand I wonder if the huzbond would say no to Charlize Theron?!? I would never ask him to… dreams are fair play! Sheesh.
But apparently not for me. My high self-standards are killing me.
Note to self: If Ewan McGregor challenges me to a game of beef in yo taco… the answer is yes!