The Psychic Always Rings Twice

Last night I dreamed I was living in a house in the city with a group of young people. There was a girl in her mid-twenties who was a survey taker living with us. She was always breaking out her survey packets and asking us a lot of questions about our personal beliefs. It was a daily routine, and the only time she'd break this routine would be if I was expecting a call from my psychic. She explained her reasoning thusly:

"I don't want to find out that your psychic friend knows all the answers before I even ask the questions. I'd be terrified, and then I'd have to believe whatever she said."

"Yeah," I said, laughing. "I'd be like, 'Hey, Jeannette. You're such a good friend, Jeannette. Tell me, please, what's in store for me today?'" (I actually have a psychic friend named Jeannette. Now, I feel obligated to text her and tell her about this dream. Or maybe I should expect a call from her. Ha.)

The survey girl was just opening up another survey packet from its sealed cellophane wrapper when the phone rang. She stopped unwrapping and looked up in horror, as if her worst fears were about to be realized. It wasn't the psychic, however. It was my mom.

"Hi, Mom," I said, to the girl's great relief.

"I can barely hear you," my mom said. "Can you speak up?"

I put her on speaker, and we then went into a long conversation about the pros and cons of marijuana. I found myself articulating many points, reasoning the position that I held. My mom mostly listened, but chimed in occasionally, not necessarily disagreeing with me, but offering a complementary counterpoint here and there.

"When the plants are young," she said, "they can barely be distinguished from tomato plants. They aren't offensive or obvious at all."

"True," I said, "but when they are in full bloom, they are actually quite pretty. Who can be mad at a flower?"

Indeed. Well, this was the extent of my memory of the dream. It seems that there is a direct correlation between smoking weed and dreaming. It is more of an inverse correlation, really. The more weed I smoke, the less I dream or, if I do dream, I don't remember much. But not smoking it tends to lead to me having pot-themed dreams, so apparently, whether I smoke it or not, I seem to have pot on the brain. 

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Epilogue. My psychic friend did indeed text me this evening out of the blue. It had been weeks since our last conversation, so this falls into the semi-spooky category. I told her about the dream, and she thought it was pretty funny. I'm not terrified, but maybe I should start believing everything she says, just to be safe.