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The Scarlett Letter

For the past several months, I’ve had the exact same dream. What’s worse is, I have no idea what it means or how to make it stop. Here’s as much of it as I can remember:

There I am, sitting at a secluded table, with Scarlett Johansson as my date. She’s wearing a black strapless dress and her hair’s up in some sophisticated way. And for some reason, in her left ear, there’s a single pearl earring. I mean, she’s Scarlett Johansson. Can’t she afford the other one? In any case, she looks amazing. And that’s when it hits me: I’m having dinner with Scarlett Johansson!

“Holy shit,” I say. “Scarlett Johansson. The Scarlett Johansson. I can’t believe I’m having dinner with Scarlett Johansson.”

“Oh, Smivey,” she says. “It’s no big deal. Just try to relax and eat your salad.”

And so I do. I try to eat my salad. But every time I look up, Scarlett Johansson is sitting across from me.

“Fuck. Scarlett Johansson. This is fucking amazing. The Scarlett Johansson. Why would Scarlett Johansson ever want to have dinner with me? I’m so much older than she is.”

“Would you stop talking about me as if I’m not here? You know why I agreed to go out with you. It was that letter you sent me almost a year ago.”

“Yeah, I still can’t believe you actually read that.”

“Oh, I read all of my fan mail. Usually, they’re just requests for my undergarments, but yours was so different, so special.”

“Oh, stop.”

“No, really. I still carry it with me wherever I go.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I do!”

“Uh huh.”

Scarlett digs through her Prada bag and pulls out a neatly folded piece of paper. She unfolds the paper, because it’s much easier to read that way, and then proceeds to, duh, read it:

“Sweet Scarlett,

I realize you probably get hundreds of letters every year, but this one is very special and you will, undoubtedly, hold it dear to your heart. After you read it, you will become my girlfriend and then we will stay at home and watch DVDs on my home theater system with 5.1 surround sound.

Holy shit. Scarlett Johansson. I can’t believe I’m writing to the Scarlett Johansson. This is fucking amazing. The Scarlett Johansson. Why would Scarlett Johansson ever read my letter?

Oh, I have to go. My Pillsbury Toaster Strudel is ready. It’s important to frost them while they’re hot. Otherwise, the frosting won’t be all gooey and runny the way I like it. Do you like toaster strudel? I need a woman who likes toaster strudel.

Anyway, please give me a call. Better yet, IM me. I’m always online. Always.

Yours, very soon,

Smivey”

“OK,” I say to Scarlett, “will you put the fucking letter down and eat your salad? You’re embarrassing me.”

“Sorry. It’s very dear to my heart.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Honestly, I think you should know, I sort of knew about you before you even wrote to me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, I kind of heard about you from a friend of mine and I decided to check out your blog.”

“You used to read my blog?”

“I still do. It fucking rocks.”

“My blog?”

“Sure.”

“My blog??”

“Smivey, you really need to do something about your self esteem.”

“Maybe.”

“Isn’t it cool that I was a fan of yours before we even met?”

“Not really. Actually, it kind of freaks me out.”

“Freaks you out?”

“Yeah, I feel a little violated here.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Do I need to spell it out for you? I don’t like the idea of some woman obsessing over me. It’s like you were cyberstalking me or something.”

“Oh, suck it! I wasn’t cyberstalking you. I just read your blog occasionally to see what you were up to.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s fucked up.”

“Are you insane?”

“No, I believe you’re the one who’s insane.”

“Look, can’t we just finish our dinner and talk about this later? I don’t want to cause a scene.”

“Here’s a better idea. Why don’t you get the fuck out of here?”

“Ha. Yeah, right. Very funny.”

“You think I’m kidding? If you’re not gonna leave, I will.”

“Smivey, are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

She stares at me for a moment. “Fine!”

She throws her napkin at me, gets up, then pours what’s left of her wine onto my head. I watch her as she storms out of the room, her long, slender middle finger extended out just for me. I casually pat my face dry with Scarlett’s discarded napkin and then go back to eating my salad. That’s when it hits me: Fuck. Scarlett Johansson. I can’t believe I just got into a fight with Scarlett Johansson. The Scarlett Johansson!

But wait, here’s the strange part: The salad has honey-mustard dressing on it. I hate honey-mustard dressing. But in the dream, it tastes pretty damn good and I end up devouring it. How fucked up is that?

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