My friend has dreams. Dreams of slow and deserving fame; of belting out musical epiphanies and revelations through tunes we can only imagine; of being on stage, blinded by hot lights in concert-like hues, her mouth resting tentatively against the cold metallic gridded orb of the microphone, as she soaks up the palpable energy of thousands of fans spread out before her, like a colony of swarming insects; of concentrating NOT on the microphone's stench of last night's beer, old cigarettes, and remnants of all the depressed, idealistic, visionary, auditory geniuses that have come before her, but rather of being carried away by melodies and smart words she is about to unleash onto thousands of human sponges waiting to be enlightened.
Except she is in her pajamas. Depending on the season - either a silly orange silk Vietnamese outfit, or some semblance of plaid flannel pants and a simple tank. This isn't the outfit she planned. It's all wrong. She should be wearing jeans, some sort of hipster footwear, stripes on top. A hoodie with snaps. A patch perhaps. A nerdy tshirt from her Jewish summer camp in the 80s. Some kind of leather or silver bracelet. Eye makeup. A vintage necklace from her grandmother. A brooch from Morocco. Courduroy. Nursing a beer. No wait, sipping her flask, full of whiskey. It's all wrong. She can't perform barefoot, in flannel.
Then she wakes up. Just in time.
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