What AM I eating before bedtime.

Seriously.

This dream simply must be shared. My apologies to Hans Christian Anderson and Walt Disney.

There I was, in a lovely, ornate bedroom with Sting and a dark-haired beauty, the room swathed in deep blue, green and gold organza. We all sat on the edge of his plush, velvety bed, placed on a high platform with steps as every proper Tantric centerpiece should. But yet, we were not focusing on a three-way exchange of ecstatic breath or the merging of Second Chakra energies. No, we were admiring his new toilet.

Yes, toilet.

And it sat right next to the bed, on a slightly smaller pedestal of its own, and a finer specimen of sculpted, shiny white porcelain surely never graced an ornate blue and green Tantric celebrity bedroom dreamscape. Suddenly, Sting stood up next to the bed, and as he did, I seemed to pan up into the air as if in a movie, where I could view everything as if through a camera lens, and observed as Sting whipped out his penis and sprayed a fine,pure, golden stream of urine up into the air, in a perfect arc, right into the toilet, without making even the tiniest splatter. Immediately his girlfriend then also leapt into the air in a similar arc, and dove headfirst into the toilet.

And the camera pans down, way down, into the dark blue water where things go after they whirl away post-flush, and we see that lovely sylph glides deep into the water, transforms into a sparkling, magical, alluring mermaid as she ripples along. She streaks straight toward the cloud of Sting’s urine, floating there like a golden, glittering orb, and she slides straight inside, slowly twirling… euphoric… golden and glittering… reveling in the joy and delight… and she tells me, not through words, but telepathically, that her DNA and Sting’s are now one.

No, I don’t get it.

And no, “Under Da Sea” wasn’t playing as the soundtrack.

And no, I am totally not installing a toilet next to our bed, no matter how much my husband begs.