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So, two of my very favorite people in the world (that would be Levi and Caryn) are getting married. (Bling!) I’ve known them both for a long time, since I was a 22-year-old drunken drama queen, to be exact, I’ve slept in both of their homes, we’ve had some poetry readings, partied like rock stars, and they both are very patient with me when I’m being a grouchy bitch (like that time when I found a bone in my chimichanga, which is not a euphemism, by the way). Also, HENRY JAMES!!!! Indeed. If there’s one thing in this world that I’m cynical about, then it’s love, yet having known them for as long as I have, they make it clear beyond any doubt that not only is love not an urban legend, it actually works. Even long-distance. So, congratulations again, you crazy kids. I’m ridiculously happy for you.

Anyway, now that they’re geting married, it stands to reason that there’s going to be a wedding of some sort (I vote for base-jumping, if I get a vote, which I’m sure I do not). So last night, I had a dream about the impending nuptials, but since I have a fever (I do! I went to the doctor yesterday and my body temperature is over 100 degrees. Every time I look in the mirror, I expect to see steam rising off of my face, which would be kinda cool, huh? But anyway, no, just face. Bah.) it was, of course, a crazy dream. Because you know what else is coming up? My 10-year class reunion. Whatever, high school. Maybe I’ll just tell everyone I invented Post-Its. Yeah.

So, in my dream, I was at the wedding reception, and I looked really cute, if I do say so myself. So much so that sleeping-me wanted to tell dream-me, “Nice going, hot stuff,” but I couldn’t because I was sleeping. (I seem to want to talk to myself while I’m dreaming a lot. Though if reports from others are any indication, then I do talk to myself while I’m dreaming a lot.) And I think Frank Sinatra is playing, which is good, because you can never ever go wrong with Sinatra. I’m about to have a piece of cake, because I like cake, and also eating cake is what one does at weddings, when suddenly, instead of Sinatra, R. Kelly was playing. Yes, indeed. “I Believe I Can Fly”. When the switch took place, I said something along the lines of, “What the hell is this? If we’re going to have R. Kelly at Caryn’s wedding reception, it had better be ‘Trapped in the Closet.’” (Seriously.) And then I looked over to my right, or perhaps my left, and standing there was the guy I thought I was like, totally, seriously, omigod, in love with during my junior and senior years of high school (and also my freshman year of college), and he was still so ridiculously cute that I felt awkward and 17. “I didn’t know you knew Caryn and Levi,” I said to him, and he said, “Who?” and I said, “If you don’t know them, why are you at their wedding?” He looked at me and said, “What are you talking about? This is the class reunion.” And I said, “But you weren’t even in my class.” And then he looked at me, sighed, and wouldn’t talk to me anymore, which means that it was just like being in high school all over again. Well, except I wasn’t wearing black.

Aren’t you so glad I told you about that? I’m so sure.

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