Chelsea, Let Me Write For You

I had a pretty vivid dream a couple of weeks ago... 

It started with a walk around some kind of compound in the woods. There were a series of large homes with patio furniture strung all between. I entered one of the largest houses off to my left. An a-frame roof hugged the front door of the glorified cabin. I stepped inside and strolled around. I noted things like workout equipment on the floor and a few dead plants. I suddenly struck me that I had stumbled into Chelsea Handler's home. She's one of my favorite female figures today.

"What's up!" she said as she strolled into the room in basic workout clothes. 

I was a little surprised to hear we had a private workout session scheduled. I looked down and I, too, was wearing yoga pants and a sports bra. I don't remember much of the workout, but I do remember cracking up and rolling around on the floor when we discovered we'd been sleeping with the same guy on the regular. There were tears coming out of my eyes. 

Then, Chelsea heads off to go "get ready." For what, I have no idea. I wander around some more, talking casually to ladies who I think are housemates. I notice they are wearing flowing gowns. Chelsea comes out in a white bath robe with a face mask on. I asked what everyone was getting dressed for and they laughed. Turns out, Chelsea is getting married. I never found out to whom. And yes, she still plans to see other men while she's married. Sounds like a sort of arranged situation. 

I was not invited, so I do not invite myself. I gladly head out to my car. I don't want to hang with a bunch of strangers. As I cross an open grassy area, a bridesmaid comes running up to me. She is holding something in her hands that she wants to give me. It's a stack of programs. Plain old 8 x 11 folded wedding programs. 

"Here you go," she says.

I look at her puzzled. 

"Just stand at the beginning of the isle and hand them out to guests," she says. 

I follow her finger to my right and see a big plastic tent filling with people. I look down and I have on a darling sun dress. I shrug my shoulders and say "Well, I guess Chelsea's my girl."

I walk over to the tent and post up in the back with my programs. I start scoping out the room for cute guys and girls. Then my alarm goes off. 

I woke up thinking I might be good enough to write for Chelsea. So, how about a shot?


Richmond, VA

Megan Wilson is a freelance writer and blogger. See her work here:

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