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I was at work, walking toward the cafeteria when Bert grabbed me. I play soccer with Bert. He was shaking and moving in clumsy circles and clearly disoriented. I immediately got out my testing supplies and checked his blood sugar. I snapped the pricker against his finger and blood drops spilled out continuously like a leaky faucet. When I saw the 7 on the meter screen, my heart stopped beating for a moment. I had never seen single digits. I sat Bert down in a chair and screamed for help. "I need juice! Now!" My voice echoed through the cubicles and bounced off of tropical fish tanks. Reminiscent of the "Be Our Guest" dinner scene from Beauty and the Beast, several co-workers rushed toward me from opposite corners of the room holding tall glasses of juice in artful synchronization. "No! No!" I yelled in a panic when I took the first tall glass of juice filled mostly with ice cubes from a man with a big smile and a pink bow tie. "No! I need sugar!"

I'm in my bathtub with about fourteen people in an effort to raise money to cure diabetes. Cory Booker, the mayor of Newark, New Jersey, yells at me from the far end of the bathtub, complaining that the water is too cold.

I'm tired of the diabetes dreamin'. Enough already! Why can't I just dream of sitting on a log in the forest, urging a reluctant flower to come out of the ground like my daughter does?

I'd even take the slighter darker dream that Charlie has of an evil man with 10-inch ears and cracked shoes who knocks over baskets of folded laundry with his tractor and then pushes him in a pond only to be rescued by his 2-year-old brother Ben in a submarine.

And Mayor Booker! Stay out of my tub and out of my dreams!