I had a dream i was a secretary, or was playing one in a movie. i took notes on a pad of post-its, asked them what sort of “made-up title” a man i was asked to contact held. Everyone cleared their throats. I knew it was a misstep. Drew Barrymore was there and we shared little winks and laughs with each other in between takes; I took an immediate liking to her, but soon noticed her disgusting teeth, yellow brown, coming out of the wrong places— as I performed my lines i wondered if we were having a rehearsal, and these were just her real teeth the public never got to see, or this was the final cut and they were necessary to her character in some unforeseen way.

As my boss continued to give me orders, a car pulled into a suddenly-adjacent garage. No one was driving. A narrator’s voice boomed from the sky, something about “When two brothers fight over the same woman,” or something. It was filled with water and two men’s bodies lay in fully-reclined seats. I’m not lying when I tell you Radiohead’s “Creep” was playing. I tried to walk down the driveway but one of the dead men caught up to me. His head was completely twisted backwards. “I shouldn’t have thought I would have time to save him first,” he said. I told him we should probably go to a hospital, but he said he didn’t have insurance. “Ah,” I nodded. We weren’t to worried about it, as he was currently twisting his head back around himself, a slow process that appeared to be quite grueling; one he continued to fulfill as we walked down the road holding hands. “Creep” was still playing (I want a perfect body, I want a perfect soul— poetic or heavy-handed, I’m not sure).

“There we go,” he said, when his face was in the right direction again. I was relieved.  We looked back and the other dead man unfolded himself in the front yard, jerking himself upright as if his body were a stubborn lawnchair or poptent someone was trying desperately to untangle.

We walked away down the middle of the road. The sun shone. Drew Barrymore was nowhere to be seen.