At least in my dream, he did.

Last night was the first full night of sleep I've had since the cold set in, and boy howdy, did I dream.

It started at the summer camp I used to work for here on the island. It's not clear what that part of the dream was about. But I went home to a more rustic version of the place I live in now, and Sting was there. This is the Sting from Brimstone and Treacle, the imp, the slightly sinister version, but perhaps five or ten years older. It's as if he was an old friend, a lover who only stops by once in a great while. We ate, we talked, we drank and yes, did the deed. (This is something I've wanted since I was 15, btw; Sting was, is, and forever shall be HOT.)

He was restless and wanted to drive, so we took my car and drove north along the backroads of suburban Puget Sound. We wound up at some private school (I just remembered that Sting, in his Gordon Sumner days, was a teacher - odd) where Sting hung out with the kids, somehow needing both their approval and that of the teacher. Then he left. In my car. With my cell phone.

My ex-husband Dexter showed up, saying "people never change," in reference to my ability to tolerate men who don't really have much to commend them. I tried to explain this was Sting, man, STING, but he wouldn't listen.

Somehow I realized that Sting hadn't actually stolen my car, but had left it somewhere, after he hooked up with my neighbor guy. They were somewhere out there, tooling around with my cell phone, in neighbor guy's black truck.

I called Sting's family (an old friend, remember?) and someone, a brother maybe, said they had all tried to get him into rehab but he wouldn't listen. He said the family knew that rehab was the only hope. (Shades of Amy Winehouse, so recently in the news, I assume.)

I went home to see if they had been back, but they hadn't. The other people in my building had no idea where anyone had gone. For some reason, the EdCC band was rehearsing in our building and wanted to use my stairway to store their instrument cases. Clusterfuck!

The dream ended with me finding spare keys that I didn't know the matches for. Were they for a car? My door? Luggage? Sting's guitar cases, which weren't in my house anyway?

I went back outside to try to figure out how I was going to get transportation and find Sting, my car, my cell phone, and my sanity.