Last night I dreamed I went fishing with Brad Pitt.
I have a red fishing pole. We are baiting with worms and I catch the first fish — a Crappie. Thinking I am really something, I take it off the hook bare handed and hold it up for Brad to admire.
Then I topple head first into the water.
It is a graceful topple, followed by several minutes of underwater erotica — a la Blue Lagoon — only more developed, so to speak.
When I surface, the river banks are populated with a multitude of fishermen, all throwing their lines in.
I stride like a starlet on the man carpet, my mind consumed with one thing.
Where is my red fishing pole?
When I spot Brad, surrounded by his new fishing buddies, I appeal to him to help me in the search. It’s a classic “do I know you?” moment.
I stir in my sleep. Roll over mumbling —
“Other fish in the sea. Other fish in the sea.”