I had a dream a few nights past that I was thirty five years old. That's all I remember. I was thirty-five in my dream. Since I turned thirty-four recently, why would my brain go to the trouble of pretending that I'm one year older? If I were awake and caught my brain dressing up as a marginally older version of myself, I'd rebuke it for its obvious lack of ambition. Then I'd take over, give myself a chunky metal body with pincers for hands (important, those pincers), lasers for teeth (for that bright smile of death), and age myself two hundred years. Or whenever the aliens finally roll in to steal our planet's natural resources. Point is, I'd be able to defend the planet with my fearsome pincers and laser teeth, sending all off-planet marauders back to skulk in the bowels of their lunar fastness.
As it is, my brain exercises its shallow imaginings when I'm asleep and defenseless, forcing me to experience the unexciting spectacle of myself one year from now. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll have a dream of asking for porridge at an IHOP or wandering the aisles of a Payless factory outlet.