Yesterday night, I was married to Rachel McAdams.

So it was only for a handful of hours.

And so I wasn’t technically conscious.

But I ask you, kind reader, what is consciousness, anyways?

Now, I could go off and talk about how Descartes wondered the very same thing — that is, how do we really know if we’re dreaming or not — cept’ in his day, there was no Rachel McAdams. Descartes was probably dreaming about that saucy wench with the low-cut blouse who served him tea in the afternoons…

But dude, I was married to Rachel McAdams! Don’t you wanna hear about that?

Okay, so Rach — [yeah, I called her “Rach”. She loved it. She called me Phil, by the way. We were tight like that] — Rach and I lived in this itty-bitty quaint house, along with two kittens and a dog. It was back in Canada, of course, because everyone knows that Rachel is from Ontario.

Anyways, we ‘d be sitting on the porch, sipping our drinks. And she’d be dressed in that really sexy bride’s maid costume she had on in Wedding Crashers. Why she was wearing a bride’s maid dress, I have no idea. But piss off. My dream, remember?

Then we’d talk about our day. Nothing fancy. She’d regale me with all the wonderful details of her day: how she fended off advances from Brad Pitt and George Clooney, how she had lunch with Julia Roberts and Nicole Kidman, and how Owen Wilson was inviting us both to his cottage next week.

Then I’d talk about mine: how I sat around at home. Mostly naked. Reading about math and checking my e-mail. Eating Cheeto’s and shit.

She’d think I was the cats pajamas. Real hilarious, you know. Then again, I always seem so much funnier in my dreams.

Oh, and I think Ryan Gosling might have stopped by and tried something shady. I might have punched him, then chased him off with a bat.

Anyways, I had a fantastic time.

Tonight, I think I’m going to try falling asleep to The Notebook.