I dreamt that James Oseland lived with a French bulldog in the penthouse suite of my apartment building. I was far more entertained by the idea of my apartment building having a penthouse suite than who occupied it, despite the bizarre outfits said occupant inflicted upon his aforementioned French bulldog (tutus! tiny sombreros! simulatenously!)
And I remember checking out the Persian-harem décor and complimenting James Oseland on his impeccable taste. Like, while trying not to laugh. James Oseland kept telling me it was a gift. I had no idea if he meant the apartment itself, its furnishing, or his impeccable taste.
But then I had to return to my mission of returning the 3 cats that showed up at my door to their proper owners. Dream logic insisted the owners lived in my building. Dream logic did not find it necessary to explain to me what kind of space/time had to be bent to allow me to believe that my crappy building was now this sprawling, brilliantly groomed complex (it sort of looked like the mansion from Flowers In The Attic, and don’t even try to tell me you weren’t as obsessed with the movie as I was in the late 80’s). And every door I knocked on (there were seriously hundreds) opened up to some other absurd kind of tardis situation. No. It was like tardis meets Underland meets what happens to Sonny Bono’s apartment in Troll. I don’t know what the fuck was going on.
I will now collect my dork points for referencing Top Chef, Flowers In The Attic, Doctor Who, Mercy Thompson, and Troll all in one fucking three paragraph blog post.
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