As promised, I have returned from the hell that is the quarterly FCC report, and I am ready to regale you with the jacked up dream I had earlier this week from which I woke up crying AND which is still stuck in my head like an evil, evil possum.
It starts out with some random amalgam of an ex-boyfriend (no one I really recognize, but he looks vaguely like several of the exes all mixed together, and in the dream I know he’s “the ex,” ya know?). Apparently, I have smacked him across the face with a shirt so hard that the Nike logo (not the swoosh, the Michael Jordan jumping one) is imprinted on his forehead, and motherfucker has called the cops. My Dear Sweet Mama is there and she answers the door in true “Real Stories of the Highway Patrol” style and tells the deputy I’m not there, but he can fucking see me through the side window, so I’m busted (thanks for trying, Mama).
So they take me off to court and the judge sentences me — 34-year-old me, remember — to the Home for Wayward Teens (you know, like where we all thought we’d get sent if we were delinquents or got knocked up?). And I’m trying to explain to them that I’m not a Wayward Teen, I’m a grown-ass woman, but nobody listens and off I go to the Wayward Teen Bus.
The Home is just awful, kinda like the big gymnasium/dormitory in “The Handmaid’s Tale,” except at least those bitches had cots and all we had were mats on the floor like you used to take camping before Jesus invented the air mattress. And all you get for a blanket is one of those crappy little airline ones, so you either have to leave your top out or your feet out and you’ll be cold. And all the Teens are what I’d have to call Extremely Wayward — they’re always threatening each other and fighting with knives and shit. So I keep trying to get someone in authority to listen to me and realize that I shouldn’t be there, but the best I can get is “liberty” out in the town… WITH the damn Wayward Teens!
All the Teens wanna do is go to the pizza joint I used to hang out in when I was in junior high, but they ain’t got no money, so they all just share one basket of fries and vandalize the tables with their switchblades. And the waitress keeps looking at me like I’m somehow in charge of them, and I’m like, “Dude, I can’t stop them, those are some badass Wayward Teens.”
The worst part is, the Knocked-up Wayward Teens all get out when they have their babies, and the Delinquent Wayward Teens get out when they turn 18, but I am not knocked up and I’m already over 18, so how can I ever get out? I’m serious, I woke up crying ’cause they wouldn’t let me go home. Somebody needs to get me a fucking calzone.
PS — All you bitches are on notice: If I ever get sent to the Home for Wayward Teens, you are to drop everything and come bust me out! Just like the A-Team, but with more deliberate and senseless violence.
PPS — Extra credit for anyone who knows why I believe the power of Dennis Quaid can save me from my nightmares.