Condense your dream to one sentence, i.e., “Bob Saget exposed himself to me.”
Obtain a PhD in oral storytelling so you come to understand intonation and strategic pausing. Provide mood lighting, S’mores. Then practice telling me your dream in front of a mirror while I play on the Xbox.
Dream about me.
Tell me your dreams once every five to six years.
Write down your dreams on college-ruled notebook paper, fold them into a manila envelope and never give them to me.
Dream the narrative arc to The Hangover.
Dream the cure to cancer. Then sit down to a home-cooked meal that I have poisoned. As you begin convulsing, I will phone the Nobel Prize committee. I will then make a rookie mistake and turn my back to you, so you lunge and try to strangle me, but I have a knife in my pocket so I’ll just stab you in the stomach and watch you bleed out.
While you read from your dream journal, keep an old T-shirt soaked with ether on a table between us. Threaten to smother me with it if I don’t pay attention.
Secure reservations at a hip, new restaurant that just opened and then buy tickets to see Leonard Cohen during his final tour date. Remind me of both of these upcoming events as you tell me about your stupid fucking dream.
Buy a handle of Stoli.