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Or I had one.

And in this dream, I was a hip-hop star with the freshest, hottest moves this side of… well, the fresh, hot people.

I didn’t really know who they were in my dream, just like I’m somewhat ignorant on that front in my waking life.

I just knew that I was one of the ELITE.

But the odd thing was, I SUCKED. I really, really sucked. But everyone just kept telling me I was “the bomb, yo.”

And they were doing all the things I did strictly because, well… I did them.

I had this one little dance riff that made me look a lot like a bug stuck on its back, and every time I would bust it out, I’d need someone to help me back up off the ground, because let’s BE REAL FOR A SECOND — I’m no spring chicken anymore.

This move became the big new thing — the offered assistance included, natch — to the point where EVERYONE looked like a white 32 year-old woman with no formal dance training trying to appear (FRONTING, if you will) as though she were born on a flattened cardboard box with a “ghetto blaster” nearby.

It was AWESOME.

Fight the power and pass the Advil.