Okay, this is the one and only time I’m going to write about a dream. Maybe it was the homemade veggie burrito I ate before drifting off to sleep, but I woke up in the middle of the night with tears streaming down my face and a clear memory of a pretty messed-up dream.
I was, for some reason or another, sentenced to death by the US government. I went all the way to Washington, D.C., to try to plead my case with Mr. George Bush himself, but he just wouldn’t see things my way. Instead, I was captured and sent back to California where I was put in the electric chair of all things. I mean, I didn’t even get the pleasure (or displeasure depending on your thoughts on how humane the death cocktail really is) of being put to death by lethal injection.
I wish I could say I was stoic in my last few minutes of life, but I wasn’t. I was sobbing and begging for my life. It was pretty pathetic and I woke up with a real sense of shame. In real life, if the US government ever sentences me to death, I hope I’ll go out like a punk-rock radical and maybe flip-off the death spectators or say something extremely clever just before I sink into death.