I had a dream last night that Mitt Romney and I had a sleepover and then we went on the lam. 
He came over and in the dream world, the world in which things are reasonable and a priori because they are being dreamt, it was part of a pre-election ritual apparently:—to come over to my house or the home of a nemesis. In either case there was an implicit truce. And I felt honored actually to entertain this or any  presidential candidate. My politics and antipathy toward the man eclipsed by his disarmingly affective ingratiation  and a certain amount of shameful star worship on my part.  I even offered him my heating pad (with which I sleep each night). 
Suddenly we are on the move. He, we need to move. He’s something of a Bond character, a double agent, it seems. We find ourselves, transported in dream time, immediately sneaking into and taking refuge in some strange apparently empty house at night. He assures me it’s fine, even though we are effectively home invading. 
Cut to: 
One by one each family member joining us in the kitchen. They are put off at first but somehow MItt manages to mollify any concern or fear. It’s like the movie Desperate Hours but instead of Bogart it’s Mitt and instead of being a terrifying psychopath he is gentle and charming. Or innocuous at least. 
It soon becomes clear that no one recognizes this man. They have no idea it’s MItt Romney—or who Mitt Romney is. And that’s how he wants it. When I can’t help but blurt out how remarkable a day it’s been—to host this, to host any United States Presidential candidate—he chastises me with his eyes. I lean in and whisper, "Do they not have any idea who you are? " He nods: no, they don’t. ”Do they never pick up a newspaper, turn on the news? “ No, he nods, they don’t. 
And we all continue to chat, awash in complacency. 
Somewhere around that time the dream is over.
And the meaning—the moral—if a dream contains such— becomes immediately clear without having to consult my council of therapists and medical professionals: 
Nobody knows who MItt Romeny is. He is like spa music. By appearances not nefarious and perhaps even capable of wooing one into a genial complacency. 
And above all else, the message I dreamt:: 
DO NOT LET MITT ROMNEY INTO YOUR HOME. 

I had a dream last night that Mitt Romney and I had a sleepover and then we went on the lam. 


He came over and in the dream world, the world in which things are reasonable and a priori because they are being dreamt, it was part of a pre-election ritual apparently:—to come over to my house or the home of a nemesis. In either case there was an implicit truce. And I felt honored actually to entertain this or any  presidential candidate. My politics and antipathy toward the man eclipsed by his disarmingly affective ingratiation  and a certain amount of shameful star worship on my part.  I even offered him my heating pad (with which I sleep each night). 

Suddenly we are on the move. He, we need to move. He’s something of a Bond character, a double agent, it seems. We find ourselves, transported in dream time, immediately sneaking into and taking refuge in some strange apparently empty house at night. He assures me it’s fine, even though we are effectively home invading. 

Cut to: 

One by one each family member joining us in the kitchen. They are put off at first but somehow MItt manages to mollify any concern or fear. It’s like the movie Desperate Hours but instead of Bogart it’s Mitt and instead of being a terrifying psychopath he is gentle and charming. Or innocuous at least. 

It soon becomes clear that no one recognizes this man. They have no idea it’s MItt Romney—or who Mitt Romney is. And that’s how he wants it. When I can’t help but blurt out how remarkable a day it’s been—to host this, to host any United States Presidential candidate—he chastises me with his eyes. I lean in and whisper, "Do they not have any idea who you are? " He nods: no, they don’t. ”Do they never pick up a newspaper, turn on the news? “ No, he nods, they don’t. 

And we all continue to chat, awash in complacency. 

Somewhere around that time the dream is over.

And the meaning—the moral—if a dream contains such— becomes immediately clear without having to consult my council of therapists and medical professionals: 

Nobody knows who MItt Romeny is. He is like spa music. By appearances not nefarious and perhaps even capable of wooing one into a genial complacency. 

And above all else, the message I dreamt:: 

DO NOT LET MITT ROMNEY INTO YOUR HOME. 

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