I had a home invasion dream last night. Two men and a woman broke into my home, which wasn’t really my home but some large, well appointed apartment purporting to be my home.
I called the police but could not get them to respond.
So I called my friend, Shep.
Shep is my longtime friend, Patriots season ticket seatmate, and the writer of the afterword of my next book, Someday Is Today.
So perfectly equipped to take on a team of bad guys.
When he arrived, Shep and I kicked ass. Got rid of the bad guys with ease. Defeated them handily.
Once the home was clear of bad guys, I immediately got upset with Shep for helping the bad guys.
“I didn’t help them,” Shep said. “I helped you. This is a dream. You’re just mixing things up. Dreams are slippery that way.”
“You’re right!” I said. “I’m dreaming. Thanks for helping.”
“I didn’t really help,” he said. “You were never really in trouble, because it’s a dream. and I’m not Shep. I’m just your mind’s version of Shep.”
“Right.”
Then I woke up. It was earlier than I had planned to begin my day, but once I wake up naturally, I’m never foolish enough to fall back into another sleep cycle, only to be startled awake by the alarm 40 minutes later.
Very bad for you. Perfect way to start the day bleary-eyed and befuddled and still tired.
But credit to Shep, who really crushed it last night.
