Sleeping-in dreams

So I was 'working' in an ER (passing myself off as a med student), but the doctors were Anthony Edwards and George Clooney. And the outfits (I shit you not) were by Project Runway. And I'm not sure they were really working as doctors, or just 'consulting' cause they were lying on gurneys most of the time, looking superhot and dispensing sage wisdom about differential diagnosis. I think we all knew we were frauds, somehow, yet not.

Outside the hospital window there was a circus fight. Two clowns on stilts really got into it. There was collateral damage. Fortunately, the trapeze woman was actually an intern. George cuddled one of the circus clown kids and checked him for head injury, but I think he may have been retarded. I asked him lots of questions about differential diagnosis, which he answered sagely.

I crawled into bed with Anthony Edwards who mumbled that he was going to London, but wouldn't take me with him. He wanted me to help find someone to write an Agatha-Christie-type mystery novel for him - someone who knew England, mysteries, writing and medicine - but somehow I wasn't suitable. I almost told him to fuck off, but swallowed my pride and proposed slightly unsuitable candidates.

I went back to the ER, but curiously, it was a large guest house at that point. Everyone was asleep and I watched people's cell phones ring, and tried to hand them to people I kind of knew from different walks of life.

A friend left his cell phone at my house. It was a garish girly pink brick that I didn't remember but I knew was his. I called and said I had his ridiculous pink cell phone, and that I was keeping it; he had already replaced it somehow, and was cooking stirfry with his girlfriend, he had to whisper. I hung up.

I was forced to make an outfit out of orange and brown stretch fabric. I kept cutting the orange fabric into large rough squares. A couple of Project Runway like designers kept coming over and pointing at drawings of neckline ruffles, hopefully, and looking up at me.