There's Not a Problem My Squad Can't Fix

I dare you to make sense of this:

Last night I dreamed I was at a Busta Rhymes concert, in the very front row. He was totally giving me the eyeball, you know how that happens when you're in the front row at a rap show? Like, total vibing that feels completely on front street?

Dream me was all a-flutter. He kept winking and stuff, and giving me smiles.

Then Spliff Star announces that it's time for Busta to pick some girls to go up on stage with him. I get terrified, cause I know he's gonna pick me and I don't do that. I'm trying to duck out, but there's too many people around me.

Sure enough, he hops right off of the stage and comes up to me. I am ready to be mortified, expecting him to pull me up on the stage and start furiously grinding my ass or something. But he offers me his arm, boyfriend style. Swoon.

I take it and he walks me through the venue. I think we're going to pick out some more girls. Instead, he leads me up some stairs to a VIP area, sits down and then commands me to sit on his lap. Which I do. And we watch the rest of the concert from the balcony. It is deluxe.

End Scene.

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I am the consummate professional today. Checking things off of my list and wearing a power tie, even. Things are picking up, but not as quickly as I'd like. I'm still a little distracted, too.

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Colette of the solemn expression, the ghost writer. She says:

Rightly or wrongly, I need to respect, to be a little afraid of the man I love. I was a stranger to fear for as long as I was a stranger to love and I should have liked both to have come together.

And I fall back in my bed, swooning over how elegant she makes her obsessions sound. It is sweet instead of perverse, the way she puts it. I am charmed forever.

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I finished my black mini skirt last night, it's fuckin ADORABLE. Next up is a hot pink gauzy sweater, and maybe a jacket or something. I'll keep you posted. XO.