I had a dream over the weekend that I slapped a friend across the face. She was driving erratically with my child in the car, then stepped out and started laughing, so I slapped her. I awoke to myself physically slapping the giant water cup off my bedside table. It drenched my phone, my dog Clyde and my clothes.

I would've been irritated (like when Abby the Great Pyrenees nudges my full cup off the table because she immediately needs a pet), but I was highly entertained. While involuntarily conjuring up successive images in REM, my arm rose from hibernation to forcefully hit an object.

I probably have some sort of violent sleep disorder that will lead to Parkinson's disease, adult diapers and death, but I am also sure I have a brain tumor, emphysema and West Nile virus. Thanks, WebMD.

I welcome my weird dreams as a nice departure from my waking consciousness. Sometimes I flail, I cry, I laugh, I kick, I scream, I run in place. (You're welcome, Husband.) I had a dream years ago that I was looking at my grade-school time capsule and was disappearing as I looked at it — like Marty McFly's family photo. I was so upset. I wanted to see what I color-penciled in for what I was to become when I grew up. (Say filthy rich, say filthy rich). I ripped it to pieces while I cried. I woke up with broken tissues and tears littering my bed.

What did I want to be? Mall santa? Lunch lady? GM at Stanley Steemer?


Luckily my fears were short-lived. My mom found my time capsule soon after that dream. Among lively information I learned about my younger self (big fan of "The Super Bowl Shuffle" and the Chicago Bulls), I learned "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Famous, I wrote.

I'll take it. I knew Young Fantz was a badass. Aside from being a shy little redhead sporting a bit of a mullet for at least three school pictures, she had a feisty momentum and a seriously creative right brain at age 9. She was dreaming of fame.

A couple decades later, Old Fantz is slapping that dream right off Young Fantz, drenching any prospect for fame. Here Old Fantz sits now, rolling around in Coinstar receipts, drinking box wine and watching Abby take a shit on the carpet — dangerously close to Old Fantz's Costco slippers.

But I won't "woe is me" me. I'm proud of my accomplishments. I have achieved a semblance of fame and I'm still young. (Shut up, upper balcony.) My house may smell like Febreze Pet Odor Eliminator, but I do have some leather-bound books. And by leather-bound books, I mean a paperback copy of the 1997 Associated Press Stylebook. And some vintage cheddar in my fridge. (See: moldy.)

Things could be worse. We could have elected Donald Trump as our next President of the United States of America. (Quick. Slap me the fuck awake.)

So I'll read this time capsule in another couple of decades. And if I'm not famous by then, well, I'll just shit the bed. In the literal sense. Unfortunately, Abby will be long gone, so somebody's gotta do it.

Now who's dream is it to wipe a washed-up old lady's ass for a living? Applications being accepted now.

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