So I’m in this dream, right? Random parking lot, nameless store. Could’ve been a Target. Probably was a Target. Target just has that dream energy.
Anyway—out of nowhere—Hugh Jackman is there. Wolverine himself. And he’s trying to sell me a book on building muscle.
Not give me the book. Not sign the book. Sell it.
Now, I’m guessing he wrote it. That’s the only way this checks out in Dream Logic Court. But still—this is Hugh Jackman. Dude’s rich, famous, and could sell a million copies by just flexing on Instagram. But nope. Here he is. In a Target parking lot. Hawking his gains manual like some kind of celebrity-turned-lot-vendor.
There’s another guy with us. His face is blurry—like my brain rendered him in “low detail mode.” Let’s call him No Detail Man.
We’re all standing behind this absolutely insane Jeep. Lifted, giant tires, custom paint job—straight out of a monster truck rally. Naturally, I assume it’s Hugh’s. The parking lot’s packed. And somehow, we’re posted up dead-center like this is a pop-up muscle summit.
Then, after some unremembered conversation (probably about protein), Hugh and I end up standing nose-to-nose. He looks me dead in the eyes and says:
“You’re like a mirror image of me!”
Then—this is the part that gets burned into my soul—he anoints me:
“Huge Jackedman.”
No Detail Man loses it. I lose it. Hugh loses it. We’re all laughing like old friends on the best day of our lives.
And then…I wake up.
No resolution.
No idea if I bought the book.
No confirmation if I was about to be cast in the next X-Men as Wolverine’s jacked cousin from the frozen north.
No gym bro pact with Hugh and No Detail Man.
Just…gone. Forever lost in the dream ether.
One thing’s for sure, though: dreams are weird, man.
Also—Hugh, if you’re reading this—my schedule’s pretty flexible. I can pencil in a blockbuster shoot or a chest day. Your call brother.
