Okay, folks. This story I’m about to tell you is fantastical, but I can assure you it’s all true. Every word of it. Granted, it’s a story about a dream I had — but I want you to know that you can rest assured knowing that I’m not embellishing or otherwise distorting any aspect of this dream whatsoever.
Beyoncé Giselle Knowles and I were madly in love.
During the course of this dream, we met, we wooed, we awkwardly made out. Flashes of it are still coming back. We’re backstage someplace, she was prepping to perform. I got her a bottle of water. She was taken aback by my thoughtfulness. I asked her how she was. She was flabbergasted by my caring nature. I tripped on something and fell down. She was overcome with amazement at my ability to make her laugh.
It was like a dream. Which it was. Within a dream.
We left each other knowing that something had changed within us. We were like children. We were babies again. We were free. We were definitely going to have sex at the next possible opportunity.
And then I awoke.
I don’t even fucking like Beyoncé. What the hell was that about?
For one night only you were Jay-Z
If only you slept long enough to tell us how the hell he let The Blueprint 3 be so horrid.
