Squeeze Me (Skink #8)

by Carl Hiaasen

She awoke with renewed certainty that Carl Jung was full of shit. Dreams meant nothing—nonsense farted by a restless subconscious.

Years ago I had a very nice therapist who was into Jung. Unfortunately, I wasn’t a good patient because I hardly ever remembered my dreams. The ones I did remember were so boring that I felt obliged to embellish them in fear of disappointing her.