Torn Tickets

We were hanging out in the backyard, which was like a fancy layer cake of a garden. On each level, people were locked in a staring contest, trying to figure out who blinked first.

On the lawn, there was a pool, some tables, and mountains of tickets that moonlighted as cash.

There were guys and gals, and some were paired up. The dream called these pairings "marriages," but let's be real—they were more like business deals that kept falling apart like a cheap piñata. Every time one crumbled, the tickets got ripped in half. Each duo was supposed to be just two people, unless someone was being sneaky.

Whenever your ticket got torn, the other half went to your ex-partner, and you had to climb up a level on the terrace. Reaching the top was like winning the game of "Who's the Brokest?"

I managed to rack up three "marriages" and kept losing my tickets like they were going out of style. I was king of the hill—right at the top—when I woke up.

Ugh.

Good Morning... or not!