evidence of mental deranged-ness
I dreamed last night that I was on the finals of Top Model, except that--instead of eliminating girls as they went along, they had a huge group at the end to finish off like at a pagent. Tyra was helping me pick my dress. Apparently, when everyone else is wearing black, you should wear the opposite to help stand out. (The opposite was shiny with fringe and at least two inches shorter than I'd wear in real life.) Did I stand out? As we went to commercial break, I looked like a Vegas showgirl in a sea of cocktail dresses.
Probably worse than dreaming I was on a guilty pleasure reality competition were the commercials in between bouts of house drama. The one I remember most (as it played frequently) was the movie trailer for the writer doing everything he can do to avoid working on his latest book and the reader he meets who could be the first to provide him with real inspiration again. Key scene: the reader (Denise Richards) walks up to the writer (Ashton Kutcher) sitting at a bake sale booth, sets down her backpack, and the writer mocks her for having read six books already that morning.