Dreams are funny things. Sometimes you have a good one. Nay, a great one.

One with a really hot babe.

But then you wake up and can’t for the life of you remember what the dream was about. You can’t remember who the chick was. What she looked like. Or how the hell she fit into the story. Though plot development was probably of minor importance.

And so you sit there, with your green puffy duvet over your feet, staring up at the ceiling, and trying desperately to hang on to…what was it you were dreaming about…? The harder you think about it, the more the foggy memories slip away.

All I remember is that it was good. And not about school. And not about math.

And that, folks, is a dream worth remembering.