I'd rather bang this than the last girl I actually banged, regardless of what it's face looks like.

Okay, one more dream

For reasons unknown, I was living with Sigourney Weaver in an enormous and poorly lit brownstone.  She gave me a ladder of Xanax and almost had sex with me.  It's not as simple as all that, though.  She was angry most of the time, and--I suspected--a little disappointed in me.  One of her interns brought up my father and I kinda lost it.  Don't know why.  Anyway, Sigourney kinda took pity on me after that and that's when the Xanax appeared.  That's when I whipped it out.  That's when we almost had sex.  That's when I woke up.

Mom and Dad would be proud...

... if I were anyone else.  I made a new friend the other day; his name is Jimmy the Weasel.  He's much prouder of his nickname than you'd suspect, and certainly more so than I am of knowing someone named Jimmy the Weasel.  My friend Bowman introduced me to a guy named Cowboy and I was stoked to have a friend I could call "Cowboy".  I also have a pal called "Crow"--I thought that was also pretty cool.  When I first moved to Hollywood, I found myself drinking with a guy tattoo'd with "Mr. Motherfucker" across his forearm.  Again, I thought that was pretty cool.

Now, here I am, me and the Weasel.  No more Cowboy and Crow; Mr. Motherfucker might've OD'd a while back... I'm not sure.  Sometimes you measure yourself by the company you keep, and sometimes you really, really shouldn't.