I had a dream that someone told me writers and artists could sometimes couch-surf at the White House. This was part of an unofficial artists’ residency, and writers like Miranda July and Eudora Welty had both done it. So, I went. It was surprisingly easy to find a cozy little room with a great desk. I ordered food when I got hungry and wrote non-stop. When I got bored of the room, I went for short walks. The house itself was packed worse than the London Book Fair, with people who had terrible fashion sense, so I left through some French doors and strolled around the property. I took a wrong turn and ended up in the parking lot, where W. was parking his hog. He was saying, “He thinks he can already take my parking spot, the bastard.” I woke up when I saw Obama’s scooter parked against a pole.