Jan 15, 2018 3 min read

The other day, I was reading about a Delaware man who was inspired by a dream to buy a scratch-off lottery ticket and won! One pleasant dream later, and this dude’s got ten thousand crisp dollars in his pocket. One good night’s rest and he’s a thousand-aire.

It seems to me that if you’re going to have a psychic premonition, it should be a much bigger haul. I was expecting him to win a million, but I suppose any amount of extra money is good. I mean, ten thousand dollars isn’t quit-your-job-and-move-to-Bermuda money, but it’s ten-days-on-a-really-nice-vacation good. At this point, I wouldn’t scoff at any amount of extra cash.

As I read further, I learned he often bought lottery tickets, and it wasn’t just a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing, as the deceptive headline had led me to believe. Click-bait!

However, this news story stirred something inside me. I realized I don’t seem to dream anymore. It’s an odd revelation to make on Martin Luther King Jr. Day. This is my “I don’t have a dream” speech.

I used to dream. I used to have really wild, nightly concoctions. They had fascinating storylines. Some even had famous guest stars, like a sitcom during sweeps week. We’re talking some serious Brad Pitt showing up on “Friends” stuff. My dreams would have won the Nielsen ratings in my demographic.

In dreams, I’ve been to alien worlds, I’ve flown over mountains, and I’ve had A-list celebrity parties – tag it with the fortune cookie ending. Wink. Wink. Nudge. Nudge.

I have also had all the standard-issue nightmares. I’ve fallen off a cliff, I’ve been chased by a knife-wielding serial killer and I’ve gone to school in a pair of tightie-whities. Don’t try to picture it.

My most frequent recurring nightmare was only slightly hellish. A “nightmare lite,” if you will.

Last year, I spent many nights in slumberland wandering around a deserted mall – probably Century III – looking for a restroom. I realized it was because I was drinking 10 to 15 glasses of water a day. Looking back, I’m glad I never found the elusive dream potty. I’m either far too old – or, possibly, far too young – for plastic sheets. You know you’re starting to get old when all your dreams are about peeing.

Some time ago, I stopped dreaming. Morpheus went on a writer’s strike. Basically, I put my head on the pillow, and six to seven hours later the alarm goes off. My evening’s entertainment erased. Technically, we all dream every night, but we don’t remember it.

I am eager to get my dream groove back. I will do anything, except drink warm milk (yuck!). To be frank, I need one of those psychic dreams. I need one about the Powerball.

Daddy needs a new pair of shoes (a new car, a European vacation, several new homes and, probably, a brand new bladder).

Let’s face it, I don’t need to dream – I just need to win the lottery.