I think my vagina is telling me to bake.

Everyone knows about Sex-on-Skates right? The hot ass neighbor whom I'm secretely trying to woo with pie and assorted desserts. And who appreciates my pie and assorted desserts and told me not so long ago he was mad at his girlfriend while I fed him and his friend pound cake. Yes, that's him.

Anwyho I had this dream last night, it went somewhat like this -- imagine swimmy stuff that indicates a dream sequence. There is no onomatopoeia for that. Let's just move on.

Me, room-mate, and another friend are sitting on a large porch of a Southern house that doubles as a dining establishment at one of those large family style tables. It's right about dusk and there is a pond somewhere nearby because the bullfrogs have started their evening chorus. We're drinking sophisticated drinks. There is probably Kentucky bourbon involved. A gaggle of well-to-do twenty somethings come and sit down at the table with us. I keep looking at this one particular blonde and thinking 'Damn she looks familiar.' Then guess who comes and sits down beside her? Sex-on-Skates. Apparently homegirl is his homegirl. Groan.

Some nebulous amount of time passes because in dreams time is always nebulous and somehow it's just me, roommate and Sex-on-Skates left at the table and guess who is aggravated with his girlfriend? Bingo.

We all decide to go back to our apartment and have a snack. So we teleport there because traveling in dreams is always left out unless you're flying or driving a run-away car. We're all sitting at our kitchen table and Sex-on-Skates reiterates his request for a snack. roommate says 'I have these Jello snack cups!' He hands them out and we begin to eat them. Sex-on-Skates is visibly upset; I inquire as to why. He petulantly tosses his jello snack across the table. I say 'Is there something wrong with your snack cup?' and he then says 'You couldn't even make me Jello! What the hell?'

I then wake up.

After some considerable dream analysis I've decided two things. Number 1 being that my vagina is telling me it's time to fire up the oven and get to baking. Maybe if I bake he'll come home, kind of like in that baseball movie, 'If you build it they will come.' 'Anna if you bake it he will come.' He's not been home in a while and I'm not exactly sure where he went. I say my vagina is behind this hub-bub because what else would be directing me to bake for Sex-on-Skates? It most certainly isn't my -- well, I'm at a loss for body parts that would want me to bake. My vagina though, it has a mind of its own.

Secondly I must have a subconscious need for Jello. So I made some. Just to be prepared, you know.