In my dreams, I rub the sleep out of my eyes and kiss my wife, sip decaf French roast on the patio, wipe cat hairs off my right asscheek. Between brainstorm sessions with my writers I’m forced to circle back and touch base, but once I’m home we water the plants in peace and rip the bong every time the supposedly dashing male lead in our fantasy romcom Netflix show does some bitch nigga shit.
In my dreams, we take a walk around the neighborhood and discuss the shipment of our new couch - she’ll stay home to sign for it. In my dreams we take a shortcut through the park on the corner, and as we poke at the small blossoms on the honeysuckle bushes, I realize I haven’t felt the need to celebrate payday in a very long time.
I wake up alone in my popcorn ceiling concrete smog box, sandwiched between six auto collision centers and a dispensary. It’s 7 in the morning, and someone’s baby daddy is already screaming.
I take a dented can of soup to the office for lunch and decide I need one million dollars.
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