Cody Makes Sure

There’s nothing more boring than people telling you their dreams. God, no. Anyone’ll tell you that. And everyone thinks their dreams must be the most interesting, the most symbolic, the best evidence of their inner complexity. Jesus, the number of people who would never tell you about their sex lives but go on about their dreams all day long. It’s daytime, for Christ’s sake! Wake up! Nobody cares! Besides, there’s only about seven dreams really, that just slip from head to head in the night. Tramps.

I’m having a baby
My teeth are crumbling
Wow, I can fly
I’m having sex with
a) person you find repulsive
b) person you’re related to
c) person you thought you’d gotten over by now
I’m having sex with
a) man of your dreams
b) woman of your dreams
c) animal of your dreams (surely not)
I’m driving a car and it’s out of control

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I’m on stage naked, late, and I don’t know my lines.

So, dreams are something I’ve vowed never to talk about. I’m not going to bore you stupid with my extended nightly soap opera. There’s just one thing I want to be clear about, though: I have never, ever dreamed about Francis. Ever.

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