I hope you get the symbolism in the dream. I know you are the deer. I know it because of the wordplay. That's how dreams are for me. Ant = aunt (as in Aunt P), sun = son, and deer = dear. Maybe that's just how it is for word people. I was on the sofa and you kept trying to climb up there. Get it? - "On the couch?" You were trying to shrink my head and I kept shooing you away because you were stepping on me with your hooves trying to get up there. And don't say resistance. It makes me puke. Rambo is shaking his head right now. He doesn't know what else to do with me. If only I had listened to him better and kept my email mouth shut, maybe I'd still be sleeping right now instead of having a beer at one in the afternoon. But I didn't listen. I spilled my guts in the email after that dream. And here I am. The cynics in the peanut gallery are laughing at me. They're saying, "Ha, ha ha! She thinks he read the email and gives a crap about her stupid dream. HA! What an idiot she is."

Please don't step on me with talk of shrinks, storage or the present moment. It makes me afraid to tell you things and it would upset the little girl if Rambo decided to store YOU by putting you back in that locker at the Y. (The peanut gallery is laughing at me again because I am assuming you read that email as well.) I don't want to be trampled and no one here wants to be 'stored'. Rambo won't let them be stored. He won't disrespect them. And hooves aside, I like you. I worry about you in my house with those fragile deer legs. There is furniture and there are too many people and sometimes they leave their crap laying round. You could trip. And the mask? Just don't do it. Please. It's unbecoming. It's at least as unbecoming as I am right now (FYI - I'm in the garage smoking and drinking at one in the afternoon after less than five hours of sleep. I'm wearing a calf length coat filled with down and it's 90 degrees out here. And you know I don't believe in deodorant).