Last night I dreamt that I was halfway through a Jimmy Dean sausage when I suddenly exclaimed, "Hey, what am I doing? I don't eat meat!" and then I spit it out with a loud and dramatic "Patooey!"
Now, I'm not usually very good at dream analysis but I'm willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that this was some sort of subconscious exploration of my sexuality, no?
Let's break it down, shall we?
For a good portion of my life, I tried eating the sausage, if you will, and then realized I didn't quite care for the taste. So by spitting out the Jimmy Dean in my dream, I was solidifying my rejection of bangers and, specifically, the men they are attached to.
The timing of this dream makes sense because just this week I briefly considered jumping back over the fence to play with the boys after my recent futile attempts to score me some girly ass.
The dream also serves a dual purpose: It reinforces my true Sapphic desires plus gives a wee nod to my adherence to a mostly meat-free diet. I don't consider myself a true vegetarian because I eat fish... which is quite fitting given all the seafood-type euphemisms for what we lezzies do with one another between the sheets... and at bars/clubs with lax policies concerning how many women can go into a onesie bathroom at the same time.
So, in closing, I'm pleased with my ability to analyze this dream because I'm usually quite dense when it comes to symbolism, allegory and all that other stuff that doesn't slap retards like me right in the face. Hell, I'm feeling so encouraged I might even take a crack at decoding some tough poetry or performance art while I'm on this roll. Or, you know, maybe just read The Onion. Whichever.