Last night I dreamed that my mom, my sister, and I were going on a grand adventure to Somewhereville, so we packed all our stuff into two suitcases and headed to the airport.
On the way there, whoever was driving did something mildly illegal like turning a U-ie or rolling through a stop sign or running over a pedestrian, and a Copper saw it and tried to pull us over. We didn’t have time for none of that law-abiding stopping nonsense, so we just kept on keepin’ on. And sure enough, soon after that we had a whole slew of angry Po-lice chasin’ after us.
We realized the situation had escalated rather quickly and gotten just plain out of hand, but we just really weren’t ready for orange jumpsuits, so we escaped the Copper chase and found refuge in my great-grandmother’s house, where all my relatives were feastin’ on the usual Southern delicacies like Mexican cornbread and sweet tea and love. Of course the Po-lice found us there eventually, and my relatives were like, “Hope youins are ready to go to jail ha ha ha!”
Then the three of us decided to walk out of the house with our hands up, because obviously that appeases the Authorities and makes it less likely that they will throw you in the Slammer. But still we somehow knew that we were gonna get locked up for seven to thirteen years.
Before they could take us away, we had to watch a giant circus performance out in the front yard. It was your usual nighttime-front-yard-you-fought-the-Law-and-the-Law-won circus show: acrobats and fireworks and sneering faces who you suspect are in on what you hope is just a really great joke and not the preamble to your new Life in Incarceration.
Then I joined in on the acrobatic flippin’ and floppin’ and soon remembered that duh, I know how to fly. So I did. And everyone was like, “Jeez, Molly. Not again. Get down here already so you can get arrested.”
And that, my dearies, is why you should never eat spoonfuls of Nutella before bed.