When you wake up one morning, having dreamed about blogging, then it’s time to take a break.
Oh, it would have all been OK if the dream had involved the good stuff which comes from blogging. You know — the money, the babes, the ability to secretly influence and control events around the world. Alas, that was not the dream.
I woke up my multi-million dollar mansion Friday morning, next to my bride, her girlfriend Monica Bellucci, and our unspeakably sexy French maid who isn’t actually French but wears the little outfit anyway, and lifted my head from the 800-thread count pillowcase, to realize I’d been dreaming about reading news stories, then typing little bon mots (a phrase taught to me by the non-French French maid one evening during Supermodel Strip Monopoly With Real American Dollars) about what I’d read.
So I walked to the kitchen, received my porcelain mug of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee from our butler, Halle Berry, and came to a decision: When your dreams are more dreary than your reality, it’s time to take a break.
It was time to get back to the real world of endless perfect days on the beach, nights of dancing and disease- and guilt-free sex with the endless procession of porn starlets who will do just anything for that inebriated-yet-handsome blogger, and weekends of charitable works at the VodkaPundit Home for Wayward Women With Perfect Teeth.
Just a little break, to give pause so that the dreams might catch back up to the reality.
Back shortly.
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