Gimme your money, bitches.

I keep dreaming of heists. Every night I break into a bank or some fancy place filled with money and run with my rotating partner in crime.

Last night I wore nothing but silk underwear and an open trench coat and spikey heels and carried an automatic that I used to threaten some brunette bitch when she tried to stop me from making my escape.

Maybe I was accidentally channeling that chick from The Transporter 2. My dream was a lot cooler than that movie.

The other night my partner in crime was a friend's ancient dog. She was a fantastic decoy. She barked at everybody while I ran for it with big bags of money.

There's a lot of yelling, running and fighting in these dreams. A far cry from that time I went to a party and danced with Willem Dafoe right before I hit Kevin Bacon with my car.

Or that time Ross Gellar called me boring while we were playing chess on that lake of ice.

I wonder what this heist thing is all about. Are the midichlorians trying to tell me to write a heist story? 'Cuz I tried that several months ago with miserable results. It turns out, I don't actually know anything about arranging a heist.

Or maybe I'm not just supposed to write about a heist. Maybe I'm supposed to go commit a heist in my silk panties and trench coat. I just don't know if I can run fast enough in those heels.