These Things That Are My Dreams

Last night I had a dream that I was dating James Franco.  Here's how it all went down.

I was at some formal black tie event.  After the event, I was walking through the hallways of a building and admiring old photos of celebrities.  While discussing the fascinating cultural phenomenon that "cougars" were referred to as "foxes" in the town where this event was being held, Franco suddenly morphs in front of me.

Franco:  "So you remember where I parked my Lamborghini, right?"

(This was the first time I had seen or spoken to James Franco in my life.  Nevertheless, I knew that his Lamgorghini was winter green.  I don't think they even come in that color, but whatever, he's James fucking Franco, so he gets to have one.  I also knew that he was parked up the road to the left somewhere.)

Me:  "Ummm... I think so?"

After walking up the road to the right somewhere, I suddenly noticed we were in casual clothes and it was morning.  I was in skinny jeans and wearing this ridiculous oversized patterned sweater that I recently purchased because it was "in."  Franco was wearing grey chinos and a white shirt.  Except it wasn't really "white" so much as, like, dirty-pillow-white.

So apparently somewhere along the way Franco decided to skip the whole get-your-car thing and just walk home.  As I was trying to figure out how to tell Franco that I really should be getting home, we ended up in a Starbucks.  I figured I needed to get some caffeine and food for the drive back home anyway (oh yeah, we were in Santa Barbara), so might as well have some breakfast.

In Starbucks, Franco got us some seats by uprooting this other group of girls from their seats.  Then we stood in line, where we talked about how crazy this all was, and where I realized that James Franco came up to about my shoulders.

When we got to the front of the line, Franco said, "I'll have a tall one," and it was automatically known that he meant a tall regular coffee.  I made a mental note to grab a McMuffin on the way home, and ordered a tall nonfat caramel macchiato.

Barista:  "I'm sorry, a what?"

Me:  "A tall nonfat caramel macchiato."

Barista:  "I'm sorry, ma'am, you're going to have to speak more slowly.  I've never heard of this drink before."

Me:  "Just a caramel macchiato.  Tall.  And nonfat."

Barista (staring at me while scribbling something on a tall cup with the same blank expression of someone who pretends to know what you said because it's just too awkward to ask again):  "Oh, okay."

Fin.