I rarely dream, and if I do I usually cannot remember what happens. This morning I woke from a fitful sleep, the strangest dream bouncing around my cranium, playing tag across my feeble synapses. I would come barely conscious only to be pulled down into slumber again by those crazy brothers Hypnos and Morpheus. Then the dream began again.
What was going on in this dream, you ask? What perverted, strange notions are revealed about my tortured soul and inner mind? I was obsessed that I need to make buttermilk biscuits. I needed to make them for the baseball team.
Have at it Freudians.