Q.) Does anyone actually care about  / want to hear long re-tellings of anyone else’s dreams?

A.) YES, YOU, ABOUT MINE.

The other night, while safely tucked into a microwave sized hotel room in Manhattan, I dreamt that I was in a meeting to pitch a TV show or something and we were all wearing pencil skirts like business women. Then suddenly this cloud of shame and despair pushed through the windows and shoved its way into the room, and the tone shifted. One of the women slipped on a men’s blazer, and leveled with me across the larger desk. You have cancer, she said. She then explained that I was made of tiny legos and that basically, one fourth of every lego that made me was cancerous. She then slipped me a sheet of paper. This is your itinerary for your chemotherapy appointments. I took the paper, looked it over, all the times and dates. I slid the paper back to her. No, sorry. I don’t have time to have cancer. I got up to leave. They tried to stop me but they couldn’t. That’s not how this works. But I opened the door, and stepped into nothing. Sorry, I don’t have time.