I dream. A lot.
I once had a MacGyver dream in which I created a whole twisting and turning plot. The first night I made it through half the episode before I woke up. I then finished the made-up episode the next night in my dreams – as if it was “To Be Continued…”
Last night I dreamed that my mother was running for a political office and she wore only pink business suits. And she was pregnant. And there was a murder there somewhere.
Then she was going to speak in front of thousands of people. Before the speech though, I thought it was important she know my skirt was from France and had “like 12 layers of fabric, see?” And I proceeded to count the layers of my skirt.
I won’t even go into that dream I had that one time where two newscasters were facing me through a black and white television screen as if I was the audience. They gave me the play-by-play of John F. Kennedy’s funeral.
Or the one where I was a cartoon squirrel who lived in a tree.
Or when I was a rancher who rode horses in the Australian Outback.
If I shared those dreams, you may never return to this blog.
