I dreamt that I was eating Triscuits, but didn’t want to.
I dreamt that my daughter and some of her friends were drinking at our home. Before they left, one of her friends in a white t-shirt took a full glass of red wine and threw it at her chest.
I dreamt I was in front of a thick and infinite wall of white post-it notes on the other side of which I could hear Trump asking for more meat from the grill.
I dreamt that a cannoli was following me.
I dreamt that Swedish Fish were flying around my head.
I dreamt that my daughter had to get lunch at school by playing Hollywood Squares. Every square had a boy from her grade in it and a whole pizza. If she won that square, she got the pizza.
I dreamt that a few friends and I were on a conveyor belt moving around and past all of the restaurant windows in Chinatown. Each restaurant had a panel of checkerboard-like windows in front with one kind of food pictured on each pane. I was demonstrating to the others how, as you travel by, to order food, you just use a mallet to break the windows of the things you want. One person asked me, “What do you do if you change your mind?”
I dreamt that I was wrestling out of the refrigerator a container of half n’ half the size of a trash barrel.
[I didn’t dream this one, actually happened, but a favorite nevertheless.]
My sleeping daughter sat up in bed, said, “I do not have bacon,” and lay back down.
Kevin Bacon, annoyed to not be had.