Pear: How was dinner?
Me: It was good. "T-Rex" is a mother effer, but dinner was quite tasty.
Pear: Who did you go to dinner with?
Me: A former co-worker that now is a client of mine. I call him God.
Pear: Why God?
Me: He is all knowing. Besides he calls me Jesus. An inside joke so to speak.
Pear: Yeah. One that you should have kept inside and not wasted my time with worthless antecdotal stories.
Me: You asked.
Pear: My mistake. What kind of dreams are you having that you needed me to help you with?
Me: I dream of tacos.
Pear: Uh huh.
Me: And cookies.
Pear: You have a lot of sexual tension built up. You need to get laid.
Me:
Pear: Really dude, you need to get laid like a squeaky hinge needs WD-40. You can probably survive without it but you are going to annoy the fuck out of us until you get it.
Me:
Pear: Don't shoot the messenger. Start dialing, line something up for tomorrow night.
Me:
Pear: If I had arms, I would do it for you but alas, I can not. So dial now bitch.
Me: What do tacos and cookies that attack me have to do with sexual tension anyway?
Pear: It is Freudian... You wouldn't get it.
Posted by Jess at June 9, 2005 09:18 PMObviously, the sexual drive is too anxiety provoking for your conscious mind, so you sublimate it into a dream about fulfilling another, more basic drive, in this case hunger.
Perhaps the oatmeal chocolate chip cookies hearken back to memories of cookies baked by the dreamer's parent, in which case the cookies attacking symbolize the classic Oedipal conflict.
The taco, obviously, symbolizes the female genetalia.
The pear's right. Everything goes back to sex. At least, according to Freud.
Posted by: owlish at June 14, 2005 10:36 PM