I don't tend to remember many of my dreams. They come and go. Sometimes they involve people I know of but don't know on a personal level. [Hello Bowdoin College] And for a brief wrinkle in time they seemed to have always ended with sex. [Again, hello Bowdoin College] But this one from last night just had moments of sheer w.t.f? that I had to try and re-hash it for the masses.
The time, 1 a.m. Disrobe. Pop the Benadryl and head to bed. Feeling good. The hangover is slightly gone and I am full from my seafood platter courtesy of M&M's Soul Food a few hours ago, and the two or three wine coolers I had while watching tivo'd Baldwin Hills, Will and Grace, and Reno 911. [What? Don't look at me like that!]
Must get rest. Must get rest. Must...get...
Asleep.
Awake.
But not really.
Somewhere north of home. Looks like the Fairfax district.
My cell phone rings.
It's Britney Spears. She wants me to grab her dry cleaning and head on over to her place.
Time flies. I got the dry cleaning. Britney greets me out front. Hair blonde. Scrunchied. Updo ponytail like. Uggs Boots. White babydoll dress or some shit. Obviously too small. All smiles. Paparazzi all over this modest looking apartment. As we head inside I take on the role of big brooding black bodyguard man, using the dry cleaning to block cameras and shield my girl, Ms. Spears.
Inside.
Children are noticeably absent. It's me, Britney, and some unidentifiable male. The place is not a mess, but it is not super tidy either.
Bedroom door is open. Giant Tonka pick-up trucks for children sit in the corner. Toys, toys, toys, galore. Begs me to ask, "yo Brit, where's the boys?"
No answer.
Instead she starts a casual conversation about something, passing out blue plastic cups which she then proceeds to fill with Moet fresh out of the bottle. Yes, Moet.
Did I mention that we are all just kicking it on the floor, not in chairs, near a glass coffee table?
Time flies.
Now we're popping some identifiable pills from a bottle sitting atop the glass coffee table. Apparently Britney must take three of these to keep herself chill and sedated.
Talib Kweli, Get By. Playing in the background.
Somehow my mom has appeared in the picture. Brit is gone. Same drab looking apartment. Me, my, mom, and the unidentifiable guy taking pills, drinking Moet. Now my mom is talking about how she must take three of these bad boys to stay sane and get by.
Where is Britney?
Did Britney morph into my mom?
I think she did.
Dream ends.
Seriously,
What the fuck?
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