I Just Had the Wildest Dream

I’m tellin’ y’all… these dreams I been havin’ lately? Sideways. Off the rails. Like Lethal Weapon 2 but someone swapped my body with a cartoon. I wake up questioning every choice I’ve ever made—some I don’t even remember making. Maybe it’s stress. Maybe I done slipped off the edge of normalcy straight into the abyss. Either way… lemme paint this picture.

I’m lying flat on the bathroom floor. Cold tiles biting my cheek. My tongue tastes like Salt  and a Mothball had a fight in my mouth. I try to push up, and my head’s hosting a parade of every bad decision I ever made. And honey, I ain’t drunk like I’ve ever been—this is some next-level nightmare fuel. Somewhere between black-out drunk and a soul on fire.

I prop myself against the bathtub, wobbling like a bobblehead on a tilt-a-whirl. “What the hell did I do tonight?” I mutter. That’s when it hits—BANG! Door. Hard. Bone-rattling. My stomach flips, my brain freezes.

Black folk instincts: I knew what was coming before the words even hit.

“This is the police! OPEN UP!” A voice booming like it just ate a thunderstorm for breakfast.

Mirror check. And honey… I swear to God, I see Detective Roger Murtaugh. Danny Glover but with eyes that could X-ray every secret I’ve ever tried to bury. Then the voice hits—smooth, icy, Samuel L. Jackson-level menace.

I spin. Bathtub. Bags. White powder. Everywhere. My subconscious didn’t play.

“That’s… drugs?!” I scream in a voice I ain’t even own. British accent? Girl, I never talk like this. But ain’t nobody got time for decorum. I start shoving the bags into the toilet. Flush. Powder flies. Gurgling toilet sounds like it’s alive. I swear I can smell the Bayou in there.

Door BANGS again. Slow. Deliberate.

“It’s over, honey,” says Murtaugh

Honey? Sweetheart? Girl… nobody calls ME that. Not like this.

“You give me no choice, sweetheart,” he continues.

I grab the Moet like I’m about to go full action hero. But then… movement in the corner. A woman. White. Too much makeup. Hair piled like she stepped out of a 1960s soul album cover.

“Oh LORD,” I whisper. “How I end up like this—shitfaced, crazy, with a White woman in my bathroom?”

But no. Ain’t her. It’s the reflection. I lean closer. Accent, aura, makeup… it’s Lynn Whitfield.

“What the fu—” before I can finish, Murtaugh busts through the door like it’s the climax of Lethal Weapon 2.

And then I wake up.

Girl… maybe it’s the pills. Or maybe… maybe the madness just needed a little room to breathe.