|This is what the shirt looked like.|
This silhouette is the exact thing I saw in my dream
And I just found it today. Spooky.
Oh...and it's a woman.
Last night I had a dream about the Stones. And it was so real...SO vivid. I can still picture it clear as day and I can hear every word ringing in my ears.
Oh, what? Was I onstage jamming with Keith? No. Was I belting out Gimme Shelter with Jagger? Not exactly. Was I front row, center drinking Dom Perignon warming a $700 seat? Uh uh.
You wanna know what my fabulous Stones dream was about? The stuff my brain flings at me when I'm unconscious and have the ability to conjure up the most amazing, fantabulous shit that could probably never happen during waking hours?
Let me set the scene for you. I'm front row and center...at the merch table. That's right...partaking in one of the top 10 dream sequences: the purchase. Hold on - it's as far from glamour as my cranium could make it. I'm buying a concert tee. And it's ugly. But that's the least of it. I plunk down forty bucks and the burly bald dude behind the table hands me a balled up blue t shirt which I stuff into my bag and hurry away from the chaos.
When I get home I take it out to inspect it. WTF? It's this not so cool concert tee blue and on the front is a purple silhouette of Mick that looks more like a woman than the actual singer. And the shirt itselt? It's like twenty sizes too big; a Mick maxi dress. Horrified that I'd just wasted my hard earned dough on this sad piece of crap and unable to return it, I did what any irate spurned female shopper would do. I call up customer service.
Customer service for concert merch? Abssolutely. I get on the horn and manage to secure an actual human that I waste no time foisting my grievances upon. The ugliness, the size...oh gawd the size! "I can't wear this!" and "can I have your name?!"
Wouldn't you know it? They can't do anything for me. I am beyond pissed. I want to talk to this person's supervisor, pronto! Still nothing. I am left with a t shirt I can't wear and forty bucks in the hole.
I woke up in a cold sweat. This...THIS is what I dream about! This is my subconscious. It's not all Caribbean vacations and champagne with Johnny Depp...oh nooo.... It's full blown anxiety and anger. The fucking Lorazepam just ain't doing it for me. I only take a small dose, but I have enough of the stuff to kill Michael Jackson four more times and I might as well flush it. Because when a dream about the Stones becomes some middle aged house wife fuckery about customer service dissatisfaction, I'm calling bullshit! I don't get out of the house nearly enough and I'm not about to give up the only social life I've got right now. Even if it is while I'm out cold.
I can't get no satisfaction, I'm working on my nineteenth nervous breakdown and Mother definitely needs a little helper.