Huh?

Last night I dreamt Lady Gaga and I were dating. While the details of the dream are plentiful, what stands out the most, besides her body being even more incredible in "real life", is Stef--yes, we are so close I not only call Lady Gaga by her real name but condense it--told me I am weird.

Huh? Come again? Lady Gaga and I are dating and I'm the weird one?

But really, LG didn't tell me anything. My subconscious, obviously up to something, told me I am weird. I went to bed thinking I lacked unusual qualities. I woke up wondering if I'm mistaken. So I confronted my subconscious, and the findings?

I want to bake myself inside a cake so I can eat my way out of it, but would settle for wearing a dress made out of cake.

I prefer to keep dildos safely tucked inside socks in the closet, but come vacation time, if there isn't enough room in my luggage, I'll consider using them as the heels of my shoes.

I have no desire to ride around in an egg, but I will sail in one if it takes me to Bora Bora.

I have never seen a smoke machine nor worn a full-body latex suit in a music video, but riding my bike behind the mosquito fogging truck wearing a pair of terrycloth shorts feels like a close second.

When I use the bathroom in the middle of the night, I can't look in the mirror because I think I'll see (little) monsters with their paws up, waiting to kill me.

I passionately play the piano but it sounds like a box of dead birds being dumped over the keys.

Huh. Wonder what I'll learn about myself tonight.