Yesterday in an e-mail, Best Friend Sarah told me about a dream she’d had about Tommy and Larry from Styx. I responded that I never have interesting dreams like that.

Be careful what you wish for.

Last night I had a long, involved, very realistic dream about Spike (from “Buffy”, for any of you who might not know what yumminess I’m talking about). Essentially, Spike had fallen in love with me (shades of “Buffy”!)—but I wasn’t Buffy, I was me, still happily married to Ken, but getting quite obsessed with Spike. Okay, let’s call a spade a spade—I _wanted_ Spike, baby.

So the dream ends with Spike leaving because I don’t love him (yeah, stole that plot from the TV show) and I sort of wake up or whatever, but I want to know what happens next, so I neatly end up right back in the dream. At that point, I realise I actually love Spike, but I can’t tell him because he’s gone. I wake up in the dream because he’s snuck into my room to leave some of my stuff that he’s had, and I get up and go downstairs in this big weird old house that I (as well as a slew of other people) live in… Things get a little muzzy there; I think I actually tracked him down somewhere else, but I’m not sure if I told him I loved him. I think I wanted to tell Ken first, to see if I could have my cake and eat it to.

Even in the dream, I knew the problem. I absolutely do _not_ want to go through the hell of choosing between two men I love again. Fuuuuck.

Now, why couldn’t I have had a dream about having wild sex with Spike? (I’m asking, I’m asking!)

Of course, what do I do as I’m writing this e-mail? Go to James Marsters’ website. And discover I missed his band playing in Santa Monica last weekend.

Sob. I think I should just go back to bed now.