I dreamt about Madonna. There. I said it.
She was her gloriously punky 80s slef: wacky clothes, spunky hair and a captivating I’ll-do-anything-I-want attitude. I was completely entranced as she walked into my shop, studying her every move as she sauntered up to the counter, pulled me closer and asked me out. My head was in the clouds, but others weren’t so sure—they lectured her, they warned her not to hurt me. I was in heaven. /swoon.
Our night of partying turned to a weekend at a coastal retreat—a tiny beach house she shared with a nondescript, grungy man. As we walked the boardwalk she pointed out the other stars that shared her hideaway location. (I’m too embarrassed to admit who else was there. Where the f*ck do these details come from?) My vantage changed to an overhead view. In the waves were swarms of eel-leech hybrids slithering out of the water, attacking the hundreds of sunbathers. After a moment of commotion I snapped my fingers and they were gone. Calm.
The beach was saved and I was gliding overhead. Happy.