When one of the players popped the ball. We then had to play with arty glass orbs, some of which were too big to fit through the hoop. Next thing I know, I'm at the home of an NBA player, which seemed to consist mostly of concrete ramps. We were discussing his next contract when a mob of fans came storming up the ramps. We ran and they chased us. When they caught us, the fans in front were carrying a large metallic pan of chocolate pudding.
My 13 year old, when I told him my dream: "What in the world was your sub-conscious trying to work through with that!?"
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9 comments:
You obviously have regrets about not pursuing your dream to be a professional basketball player. The art glass ball idicates your feelings of inadequacy at playing a man's game with a man's equipment, which you feel you can't do, but must substitute your artistic, feminine side, which just isn't up to the challenge. You are mistaken as an NBA player and chased by groupies, but instead of the usual gift that the groupies give to their favorite player, you get chocolate pudding, something that a mother may give her son, showing both your sexual frustration and latent Oedipal complex.
You are one messed up dude!
You've got some imagination there. My own tend towards generic anxiety-fests: naked in public, on the run from the law, naked in public whilst on the run from the law, that sort of thing. One hesistates to ask the rest of the crew, though I'm confident Brit's had a few featuring Sir Winston in a bowler and a feather duster, and naught else.
Duck: I note that the danger of amateur analysis is that it says more about the analyst than the analysand.
Au contraire. The only ever-presents in my golden slumbers are Ms Britney Spears and you, Joe.
Joe, are you sure that those were dreams?
Touche', Herr Doktor.
I don't remember my dreams often, but I do the ones adhering to a long running pattern: planes crashing, either as an observer or a pilot.
They started years before I became a pilot ...
I can live with that, Brit, so long as Britney's the one holding the feather duster.
Mr. Burnet;
That depends on how much of it you want. Try filling a wading pool with it.
Sadly, my dreams tend to be so ultra-realistic that I frequently have difficulty separating them from reality. Pathetically, this doesn't cause me any additional social problems. No imagination, apparently.
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