So a while back I mentioned that I had a dream about Amy Acker and myself working at Walmart, a hotbed for Terminator activity. Despite the weirdness, this was actually a pretty awesome dream, mostly because Amy Acker was in it. Sadly, she has not returned.
I understand that Amy is probably busy doing things that don’t involve crawling around inside the head of a weird guy who thinks she was the only watch worthy character in the TV show Dollhouse. She’s probably off making various TV shows and movies, hanging out with her friends, or posting on Twitter, or doing other things I’m not stalking her to know about.
Still, it would be nice to have her pop into a dream every once and a while. I’m up for almost anything. If she wants to go for ice cream during a dinosaur attack in a snowstorm, I’m cool with that. Maybe we can play video games in a helicopter being piloted by sumo wrestling dwarf named Henry Hucklefuck. These are my dreams, after all, the possibilities are endless.
Well, unless they include dreaming about Amy Acker again. That seems to be where they stop. I’ve had dreams where I investigate murders with Miguel Ferrer and dreams where I’m being chased by weird gnomes in the woods. I once dreamed that I was hiding in an upstairs bedroom, trying to avoid being killed by Ray Liotta who was clearly pissed at me for some reason. He ended up finding me, then stormed the house with a couple guys. Luckily, I found a handgun and bullets that didn’t fit it, but I was able to escape by shoving the girl I was with out of the window, straight into a bush that was growing out of the wall.
Yeah, sometimes these dreams are a little strange.
See, this is why I need Amy Acker. Of all of my weird dreams, that Terminator one was probably the least weird. Well, expect for the part where Amy Acker is working at Walmart. And is friends with me. And likes me. Ok, so basically the whole dream was about as believable as someone actually wanting to watch a sex tape of Rosie O’Donnell. Still, dreaming of Amy Acker is pretty awesome. I should do that more often.
With my luck the next time I dream about her, she’ll turn into a mass murdering Barbara Bush and try to stab me in the neck with a hockey stick. My brain hates me like that.