The Dancing Bear

I don’t like dreams sometimes. I’m not talking hopes and aspirations: if you want to stick a daily affirmation on a post-it note and dream a little dream, go for it. I’m talking all the latent, subconscious, inner workings of the psyche unleashed by sleep.
Now, when did we all learn that dreams had to mean something?
Last night, for instance, my date wanted me to wear a stolen bear costume all night for escapades around town in his RV. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? That I like costume sex? That I’m a closeted furry? That I once had to wear a bear costume while working at Mrs. Field’s in high school? That my impression of people in bear costumes was forever warped by my manager Debby having sex with her boyfriend in the back room on top of said bear costume?
Jesus Christ. This is exhausting. I think I should go back to sleep.
No. This is so important. This is Freud reading the Di Vinci bird dream. All my desires will be revealed. Why do I see myself as a bear? Why do I see myself as a bear?
Does it matter that I could take my head off while I was in the bear costume? Does it matter that the zipper to the bear costume broke? That I could be unzipped? That I was taking dance lessons before I put on the costume in the dream? Does that make me a dancing bear? Does that make me RUSSIAN?
Email all dream interpretations to the proprietor. And remember, no one wants to hear about your dreams: unless you’re telling someone they were in your dream, you’re just boring the shit out of them.