Bastante es bastante
I usually have a really good dream or a really bad dream at night. Mostly the latter. Last night, it was a sort of sad bummer of a dream, followed by a short, sweet one.
I had a ticket to Hawaii (where my sister’s boyfriend lives, and where I hope we can all visit when she has the baby next year) at 4:00 on Friday, but I was working at the dining commons I worked at in college, and my clothes were still in the wash, so I ended up missing the flight, and couldn’t wait on standby because my clothes were still in the wash.
Luckily, the lady at the ticket counter, who resembled my feisty boss at the company I first temped at when I moved to SF except with an odd sunburn scar on her nose, said it was my right to get a flight–clearly something someone from an airline would only ever, ever say in a dream, I know. But because Monday was a holiday, the next flight I could get was on Tuesday, which would shorten my trip, but still get me there nonetheless.
Then I woke up briefly as usual, drank some water, fell back asleep, and dreamed I was recording a smooth R n B song with Jill Scott. Whom I rather love. Yes, I can sing like a black person in my dreams.
Word.
