I had a dream that my mother got all done up in a Victorian costume complete with granny glasses, a bonnet and petticoats. She was spinning alpaca hair. When she tired of that, she went to work on an heirloom quilt with a futuristic theme of celestial orbs and other heavenly objects. Toto was looking on, barking encouragement.
Oh, wait. That wasn’t a dream.
I had a dream that a bunch of strangers in white coats and masks came at me with needles and knives and bits of thread and hacked away at my torso until it looked like a dart board after a frat party. Then they pumped me full of poison for months on end and put me on a strict regimen of daily exposure to photon torpedoes until my matter and antimatter were scrambled eggs. To get revenge, I made a voodoo doll to represent all foolish mortals who dare to wear white. I grew feverish as I jabbed pins into its vulnerable body. My eyes rolled back into my head and I laughed the laugh of the possessed. Bwahahaha!
Oh, wait. That wasn’t a dream either.
I had a dream that I sat with a spoon poised over a hot fudge sundae. The quickly melting ice cream was just starting to drip over the edges of the fluted glass. The succulent cherry poised on top glinted in the afternoon sun. My spoon hovered. I hesitated, savoring the moment, the whipped cream taunting me with its sensual froth. My taste buds quivered in anticipation, while minuscule droplets of drool percolated at the corners of my parted lips. My ego calmly rationalized, “There’s a cherry on top. That’s a fruit. It’s healthy and nutritious.” At the same time, my id ran around in hysterical circles, waving its arms and screaming, “Cream! Sugar! Calories! Fat! Gimme! Gimme NOW!”
Now THAT was a dream. There’s no hot fudge in Japan, silly.