Angelina Jolie, a late-night performance fail, and a song of redemption. But what does it mean?

Last night’s dream is messing with my head.
I feel compelled to share this epic tale as best as I can remember it. Honestly, this task is daunting. And If you have any idea about what this might all mean, share it. Please. I’m lost-ish.
 
This slumber-time saga began with a TV show that was using a book of mine as the script for one of their episodes. But as I was watching the show with other people, I kept noticing things that had gotten changed. It had been flattened and dumbed down. I kept saying, “The book is funnier.” 
 
The head guy was there. I’m not sure if he was the show runner, a network executive or a producer. But whoever he was, he took offense to my criticism and challenged me. I held my ground. Then I went big, asking him why he was so threatened by someone who wasn’t even on his staff. He showed me the door.
 
I went to the reception area and waited for Kristy V. (This is a real person, so I’m not sharing her full name. Just know that she’s someone worth respecting.) Apparently, I’d had a meeting set up with her while all the script drama had been going down. But she still wasn’t ready for me so I hadn’t missed anything. I couldn’t wait to tell her what had just happened.
 
And somehow, while waiting for Kristy V, I was paired with Angelina Jolie. It just makes sense, right? Angelina was clearly on a mission of self-destruction. It was all turning very Girl Interrupted. We headed out into the NYC night with another young woman. A sidekick? Maybe. Suddenly, I had a car. It was the little white Nissan Sentra I owned when I first moved to New York.
 
That Sentra was an interesting case of parental manipulation and bribery. Two years out of college, I was out to dinner with my parents. My Dad asked, “Hon, if I give you the down payment for the car, can you keep up the payments?” I said, “Sure.” I like questions with easy answers. His plan was that, with a car, I’d visit them more. And all I had to do was keep up the payments. And visit them more.
 
Anyway, back to the action. Angelina was directing us up this street and down that street without much obvious forethought. Then she had me park in what seemed a legal spot at the curb. But I wasn’t totally sure if I’d get towed. Plus, I didn’t notice what block were on.
 
There we were, out and about, meeting all kinds of colorful and eclectic people in the late-night world of NYC’s downtown. The next thing I knew, we were backstage at…a theater? A club? I wasn’t sure. There was also a flamboyant man from the venue with us. (Think: Paul Lynde’s Uncle Arthur from Bewitched. Google it if you must.) Angelina had me cover my face with some sort of white powder. She brushed it away from my eyes—which were now blue. But she left it soft around the rest of my face so all of my features artfully dropped away. Oh, and I had on a top hat. Then, my face looked like Anne Hathaway (who is also not naturally blue-eyed).
 
As it happens, I’m not an Ann Hathaway fan. But for some reason, this didn’t bother me.
 
Suddenly, we’d left the backstage area and we were in the audience. There were a couple dozen theatrically dressed women milling around the stage and dancing. I was coerced into joining them. I was not happy about this, and tried to blend into the background. But then, Angie (we were clearly becoming more familiar) had the MC announce that I would be doing a standup set. I explained to him that I don’t do sets. I write. He said something like, “Well I have a room full of people and they’re waiting to laugh. Don’t blow it.”
 
Angie smoked a cigarette and watched from a table at the edge of the stage as I did my best to tell the story of my righteous indignation at the TV producer showing me the door. But the audience was ignoring me, except for some guy who kept heckling. I tried engaging the heckler, making it about him. Finally, I was able to get the upper hand, but most of the audience had left, so it didn’t seem to matter. Oh, well. I handed the mic to a drag queen with a huge orange wig. This was clearly not her first rodeo, nor her first near-empty show. (At some point during all this, I looked like myself again.)
 
With that, I left with Angie and some guy who was her new sidekick. Angie’s health was getting worse. She decided to steal a delivery truck the size of a golf cart. Not sure if it was from FedEx, UPS or some other official bringer of packages. I just knew that I was concerned for her. She drove it erratically into an empty lot, then tipped it over and passed out. The new sidekick guy was gone. I assumed he was an opportunist and the opportunity had just flopped on its side.
 
I finally revived Angie, who was back on her feet, but shaky. Around the corner, we found the sidekick. Seems he’d been looking for help. Suddenly, I started recognizing the streets and I was convinced we were getting closer and closer to my car. There was a sign I recognized and then a mural and graffiti. But we still weren’t finding the car. We had to be close.
 
Then, suddenly standing nearby was Jason Bateman in a doctor’s coat, and he called to Angie. (Why not?) He guided us to a store which had a wide range of eclectic items for sale, including jewelry. The owner was Rachel D. (Again, a real person in my life worthy of respect.) Angie started perusing the items. Rachel, who has a long-standing affection for Angelina, told me she had bought her many pricey gifts in the past. I had no idea where Jason Bateman went. A movie set? His podcast? Another celebrity patient? He’s quite versatile, ya know.
 
As the now very sick Angelina Jolie fumbled through the store, a phone call came in for me. Someone said it was Kristi V. But when I went to the counter and picked up the receiver, it wasn’t Kristi. It was the guy from the TV job who’d fired me.
 
He asked me to sing a song. “What?” “Before we talk, I’d like you to sing me a song.” I thought it was a strange request, but started sing “Who Will Buy?” from the Broadway musical, Oliver.
 
“Who will buy this wonderful morning?
 “Such a sky you never did see.
 “Who will tie it up with a ribbon,
 “And put it in a box for me?”
 
I finished the entire tune. Apparently, it was mesmerizing. Everyone in the store and on the street stopped and listened. Over the receiver, I could hear the man say, “She’s a headliner.” He wanted me back.
 
Angelina’s health finally gave out. She was whisked to the hospital—conveniently right upstairs. I could see all the medical commotion through large bay windows. As I was leaving, headed towards onlookers in the street, I could hear death cries. It was devastating. I went back and hugged Rachel D, who was now in a large bed in her store. We commiserated, then she told me to go.
 
I went out into the daylight and was hugged by Angie’s sidekick guy as if we’d been through battle together. When our embrace ended, I thought that it would be poetic if my car was suddenly right there. It wasn’t.
 
So, what does it all mean? A) Good fortune is coming B) Bad fortune is coming C) I’m a raging narcissist D) None of the above. I have a few thoughts but am curious to hear yours.
 
Cheers and sleep well,
Honey