I’m laying in a field. Movements are graceful. Actions are direct. The light is soft, natural. Feels like a Terrence Malick movie. Gentle breezes move in waves over the tips of the grasses.

I am laying next to a man. That man is former New York City mayor Rudy Giuliani. His shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He unzips my pants and, against my wishes, starts to give me a handjob. I don
‘t hate it, but I didn’t ask for it either. My hands move like they are held down with wood glue, straining against rubbery restraints. This is an important detail, because in a dream my hands could actually be held down by wood glue. But they only feel that way.

Rudy laughs a mechanical laugh that sounds like someone shoving a piece of paper into an oscillating fan. I don’t think this is funny at all. I manage to tear myself away from his grip and immediately set down to write a book about my life. It’s published within forty minutes. It’s over a thousand pages, but the only thing anyone focuses on is the one line where I mention I was given a handjob against my will by former New York City mayor Rudy Giuliani.

“You better erase that,” they tell me.

“I can’t,” I say. “It’s in a published book.”

I’m in a mansion in the city and a mob gathers outside my home. They want vengeance. They demand retribution.

“You’ll pay for sullying the name of our hero!” a woman in the mob screams.

“But he gave me a handjob I didn’t ask for!” I scream back.

We’re back in the field. I put my head on his chest. He stinks like garlic.