I always find it funny when a girl dreams about me, ‘cause it means she’s already in trouble and hasn’t yet noticed.
See, dreaming about a famous actor, or that cute boy who ignored you in high school, or your handsy uncle… that’s safe. You’ll never meet the actor, the cute boy still doesn’t want you, and your mom will almost certainly stop helping you pay your electric bill every month if you suck her brother’s dick.
But me? You can talk to me. You can send me lengthy treatises about why you need me so badly, DMs that read like prayers from a lost soul, and there’s a modest chance your prayer will actually be answered. You can bask in my glow like a needy little lizard in the sun. You can bust your ass and actually make yourself useful. You can pour all that you have into me, and finally find a place for yourself within something bigger and more important than you.
So I’m not a dream… I’m a possibility that lives in your head. I’ve hollowed out a little spot in your imagination, and claimed it as mine. And I’m going to warn you right now: I’ve got a whole Manifest Destiny thing going with girls like you.
From sea to shining sea, cunt.