Ode to Neve Campbell
Neve Campbell came to me last night in a dream, quite a change from the usual vapid cheerleaders and old girlfriends with knives and arsenic seeking revenge. Out of work since Party of Five and the Scream movies,
Julia Salinger of the innocent eyes jumped at the chance to audition for an indy production. “What’s my motivation?”she asked with an endearing pout. “You’re a tortured soul,”I said. “Guys have used you and tossed you aside.”
“And what makes you different?” she said.I wasn’t ready for such an attitude from my dream girl. If she’d been a sport, Neve would have had sex with me,but we just sat there holding hands. I hear she’s married.
My dreamscape is usually hornier than this, darn it.It was apparent I wasn’t going to get to taste those pouty lips.Why should dreams be any different? Since my subconscious had sent me an angel, I thought I’d ask about the lack of women in my life.
“What’s wrong with me?” I asked. “Even Ted Bundy had a girlfriend.”She said I was too emotionally unstable to handle a credit card chewing, manalo-wearing, Gucci handbag fondling, cell phone abusing, soap opera-watching, romance novel reading clothes horse.
Julia’s Wikipedia entry says she hates her toes, that she was once a ballerina and that her mother is Jewish. Told her how grateful I was that she’d shown up in my dream. “Lately I haven’t even been the central character in my own dreams. They’ve been about somebody else I don’t even know.”