If that ain’t a metaphor …

I don’t remember my dreams that often. That’s probably because I have banshees upstairs and sleep is a thing of the past. (I called the cops on them three times last night. Who keeps fighting after the cops leave?!)

In any event, I dreamed that I had brand-new twin boys with a guy who looks like Chris Hemsworth. And my company was upset that I was going to be having a life and not spending as much time there, so they hired a hitman and shot him and one of the boys.

I realized that they were firing at “Chris,” who was holding both boys, and I threw myself over them to shield them. But when I looked up, two out of three were dying and I was bleeding too.

I don’t know what happened to me physically, but I knew I had amnesia. And that these people meant a lot to me somehow. And I knew that I needed to name the surviving twin after “Chris” but I could not for the life of me remember his name.

I think I ended up naming the boy Cooper because I thought that’s what “Chris'” name was, but I could never be sure.

And that’s interesting how my subconscious is convinced that any chance I have at happiness will be taken away from me somehow.

And what woke me up, you ask? Well, the banshees started screaming, of course.

I try so hard to be positive and only surround myself with good people, good energy and good things. But not even being able to relax at night is setting the tone for nothing but bad days, and now worse nights ahead.

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