She’s baaaaaack… and sober as a judge.

Well, some judges. But not Bret Cavanaugh. glug, glug. You know what I’m talking about. Did you miss me? I missed you. I have so many things to tell you since I last blogged in…was it really 2016? Holy crap. I missed the entirety of the Tr*mp years. Oof, that’s probably why I’ve been away for so long. I just couldn’t with that orange muppet.

Back to the sobriety thing: Last night I dreamt I was smoking bong hits (of marijuana, you plebes) from a big red bong that looked a bit like I Dream of Jeanie’s bottle house. I was at a house party with my old friend Dave (hi, Dave!). As I was about to imbibe, some other dude started to mansplain how to smoke a bong to me. Slow your roll, there, Manny Mansplainer, I cut my teeth on bong smoking back in the days when that stank was illegal. In the dream, the cops showed up to the party, a bunch of people ran, and the rest of us feigned innocence (as one does). Somewhere along the way, I lost a flip flop and was then detained. 

Nowadays (at least in Florida) there’s a dispensary on every corner where any young upstart with a medical card can go buy a selection of the finest leafy greens, with nary a cop in sight. Gone are the days of driving 90 miles up the highway to the sketchy part of Mason City, where you go around the back of a dilapidated Victorian house, and ask for a guy named Critter. Cash only, no last names, no prescription required. Nope, now you can just go to the store. How convenient. Also, all of Mason City is sketchy.

Speaking of which, how many people do you think are still in prison for marijuana related offenses? Yeah, we should look into that. But let’s get back on the sobriety bus.

So this dream I had last night with bong hits, and cops, and a Cypress Hill track playing in the background while I hopped around with one shoe missing (dreams are weird, y’all) came at a time when it’s been nearly thirty years since I last actually did any of those things in real life. Except for chastising  a mansplainer. That happened yesterday. Who knows why my subconscious thought I needed a reminder of the insanity of inebriation and the commensurate chaos (and loss of footware), but it did. Thanks, brain, for the history lesson which I do not want to repeat.

In conclusion, dreams don’t have to mean anything and I am sober today. I can’t speak for everyone on the Supreme Court. Fight the power.