i only wish pulp was the soundtrack to my life.
you strange boy of my dreams. we cuddled and snuggled. i looked up at you. you looked down at me. we should have kissed. you knew it. i felt it. you turned away.

before our lips had even addressed each other, you said, "this doesn't mean i'm going to propose."
"i know," was my response. (but i'm not sure you understood that i wasn't expecting anything)

you turned away again.

i grabbed you with all my might and smothered you with my kiss.


but then again, i also dreamt that pamela anderson was my feminist guru. so who knows about dreams.