“Doc, it was orange!”

“What was orange?” He asked through a mouthful of candy bar.

“The spider. It was huge—almost like a crustacean. And when it saw me, it ran for me, and jumped onto me.”

“What happened then?”

“I shook it off, onto the floor, and threw a desk at it, but it didn’t explode—I only pinned it to the ground. Then I slapped it with a shoe, and its orange guts exploded. Some of it got onto me and burned my skin. What does that mean, doc?”

“It probably means that you ate something you were allergic to last night.”

“I had Haagen Dazs Ice cream with Raspberry Swirl, but that can’t be it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I loved it, and I don’t want to give it up.”

“Was that the end of your dream?”

“No. The spider was morphing into a doll, with sunken black eyes, and it said, “Mamma…mamma.”

“I see.”

“For some reason, I believed I could deactivate the murderous doll from outer-space, but the control panel was at the top of a mountain where it was plugged into stone. I ran up the trail, with the doll chasing me.”

“And then what happened?” My psychiatrist asked.

“I became an alien and the doll led me into her spacecraft.”

“Um, I see. This is stemming from your belief that relationships are artificial and alien to you. Try match.com and avoid eating ice cream before bed.”

“Aren’t you going to prescribe me any drugs?”

“I don’t think you need that. We don’t want to add any chemicals to your over-active mind.”