Last night I dreamed that the boyfriend and I went to our favorite bar (we don’t have a favorite bar) for a pint of our favorite beer (we don’t share a favorite beer) when, on a whim, I decided to get a giant tattoo of my favorite beer’s logo on my right forearm. It was wide, about six inches in width, and it wrapped completely around my arm, like a band. It was maroon and black. (Oddly, I have no idea what kind of beer it was, but the logo resembled one that a Yazoo beer might have. Frankly, it could have been worse. Could’ve looked like a Miller Lite logo.) In fact, it was a really well done tattoo in a design I really liked, despite the fact that the bartender did it on the fly with equipment he pulled from under the bar.

Then I started to wig. I had considered a tattoo so many times in my life, ultimately deciding to remain ink free. Why had I changed my mind? And with such immediate abandon? And why did I pick a freaking beer logo? I was forever branded a souse. I thought of all the gorgeous sleeves I’d considered, the elaborate scenes I’d imagined crawling across my back or snaking up my waist, but no. I’d gone and gotten a brew tattoo. On my fucking forearm where, unless it was winter, it couldn’t be covered up. I might as well have adorned myself with a giant pot leaf or crack pipe.

I also dreamed that I took off my bra to find heaps of cat hair in it.

I was very relieved when I awoke this morning.