Weird, weird dream last night. I dreamt I was in some three-flat in Chicago, and was waiting in line to try some new designer drug. (Hey, Mom and Dad, and any law enforcement professionals: The strongest recreational drug I take these days is Bud Light.)
Wanna guess who was sitting next to me? Well, of course it was Lindsay Lohan. Who else would also be in line for that sort of thing?
Apparently, though, I wasn’t sold on the whole psychedelic experience, because I spent quality time trying to convince LiLo to ditch the entire scene. Eventually, I was able to come to a sort of bargain: She’d give up on the drug, and we’d go back to my place and make out.
Wait. Stop. You can make all the choking noises you want, but let’s be real: Lindsay still cleans up really well. Also, she’s the pale freckled type I really enjoy. No coincidence, La is as well. And what of La in all this? Who knows? I think my brain was working on the assumption that I was still living in Chicago, which meant pre-La. (Har! Get it? Because… oh, never mind.)
So. The awesome lure of my sex convinced Lindsay Lohan to give up on drugs, though the alarm went off as soon as the deal was struck, so I suppose it’s true she went into rehab after I performed my civic duty.
