Friday, January 6

So, a Momma Tomato and a Papa Tomato and a Baby Tomato Are Walking Down the Street...*

Last night I had a dream that B and I were preparing to eat french fries, and he was putting catsup on his plate.

In the dream, I yelled at him for using too much catsup. I was seriously pissed that his little pile of a tomato-based condiment was too big. How dare he?!

I'm scared at what this says about me as a person.

Why do I only remember the dreams like this?

*Just in case I have any readers who've been in a bomb shelter without television, or who have just woken from a 15 year coma or something, it's a joke from Pulp Fiction. The punchline is Catsup.

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