I had a dream last night, which involved many, many things, most of which were probably very disturbing - they usually are - but that's all right, cos I can't remember them. I do however remember dreaming of a book called "How I Got To Kiss..." and then the name of a minor celebrity I have a worrying obsession with, who I shan't name because it's really quite embarrassing. Anyway, this was a dinky little picture book, of the ilk that you find by the counter at Waterstones - you know, the ones that are full of calming pictures of bunnies, or sarcastic cartoons of bunnies being tortured - and it was all there in my dream, words, pictures, and lo, it was wonderful. Well, at 3am it was wonderful, and as my mind only operates in a state of either only-just-awake or just-about-to-sleep it is still wonderful now.
So it got me thinking, in the groggiest possible sense of the word. My job does not exactly give me what you would call "satisfaction". In fact, it's mindless, boring, and I have no prospects, but unfortunately it pays quite well, and I need the money. Whores will have their trinkets, to quote someone in something. But maybe this was a *gasp* sign. Nay, a quest! Maybe I should jack in the job and devote my life to attempting to kiss this celebrity, and detail the attempt in an rancidly cutesy manner replete with little charcoal drawings! It appeals, because there is nothing I enjoy more than manipulating minor celebrities into a bout of light tonguing. I assume so, anyway, having never got any closer to minor celebrities than seeing Richard Herring in a discount bookshop, and he wasn't even doing anything interesting.
But the dream died, as all dreams do, when honest to God I spent hours this morning googling said celeb in an attempt to find out any way of getting near them, and drew a complete blank. Which is irritating, because it really is a very minor celebrity who not many people would even recognise, so there's every chance I could see them on the bus, or in a pub, or anywhere else where normal people congregate to celebrate their anonymity. Plus there's that whole loving relationship aspect of my life which probably wouldn't flourish if I suddenly became a pauper-stalker.
Hey ho. Just had to tell someone, or in the case of this, no-one. Remember, a superb prize still up for grabs to the first person to read this nonsense!