As I sit here playing the waiting game in the newsroom, I am reminded of a bizarre dream last night.

Apparently, I was some guy’s bitch. I think his name was Trey. We were at a club or some sort of party. It was loud. The lights were dancing. My head was spinning from all the dancing and the alcohol, or whatever drug I was on.

Trey said: Baby, go home. Take my car. I’ll meet you there later.

I agreed, but when I got into his car (a Ferrari, no less), I thought I heard something scratching at the trunk. Being fairly inebriated, I ignored and proceeded to drive my ass to Trey’s house.

He was still living with his parents and his little sister, so when I got inside I took great pains to quietly make my way to his bedroom.

I locked the door, undressed myself, and went to bed.

Sleep had almost hit me when I heard a loud whisper coming from the hallway.

“Trey! Trey! Open the door. I need to talk to you.”

To me, it didn’t sound like anyone in his family, so it made me very nervous. It was a woman’s voice, perhaps my age. I chose to ignore it because I was tired, and the door was locked anyway.

The whispers got more furious, and then they suddenly subsided.

Then I saw her fingers trying to reach under the door. The sight made me panic. The sound of the door rattling made me get out of bed. I yelled at the source of the voice, telling it to go away, that Trey wasn’t home yet.

Then she asked who I was. I could hear the anger in her voice. She somehow broke down the door and we got into an old-fashioned cat fight.

Basically, the dream was absurd. I would never put myself in such a position. I would never drive home alone after having several drinks. I would not get into a stupid fight over a guy. Yes.

Peace out.

(via snip-snap-beep.blogspot.com)