(Note: The boys from metal band Trivium kept popping up throughout this dream at the most inopportune moments, discussing what the best tracks for their forthcoming album would be.)
I have made it to the final five contestants in Britain's Next Top Model, and today's task consists in putting on a full face of make-up in five minutes. As soon as a faceless task-master shouts "Go!", we all head to the pile of make-up products in the corner. When I look around me, I realize that I am the only one who has picked a certain brand. I succumb to peer pressure, return to the make-up pile and choose what everybody else has chosen. I feel very uncomfortable, partly because I know that after this task we'll be asked to remove the make-up and do a close-up beauty shot au naturel. I am concerned that my skin is not up to the scrutiny of the camera.
Just as I am about to start putting my make-up on, the contestant who was voted out in the previous week comes crying into the room. She makes a beeline for me and, still sobbing, she goes on to tell me how unfair it was that she was booted out. I don't know if she implies that I deserved to be the one to go, but I just try to console her and tell her that I myself have no hope of making it to the final two, and that it's been a good experience that will serve us well in the future anyway.
Then, a fellow blogger I have never met in person (but of whom I have seen pictures) pops up. She has amazing teeth. I am hypnotized by them, they are so white. I compliment her on them, but on closer inspection it is not the teeth that are white, but the fabulous clenching inhibitor she is wearing. I am in awe of it: mine is nowhere near as flashy as this. Then I notice it really sticks out at the front, like the lip of that Indian chief who used to hang out with Sting. And I think to myself, "That can't be comfortable."