Hoping Freud Is Wrong.

Friday night, I had one of those kaleidoscope dreams.
It began with me losing my (red) wallet, which became my (red) purse, at Digger McDuff's (though DMD's now looked like my grandmother's basement decked out for one of her wild 1970s parties, complete with the [red] shades on the lamps and that crappy musty smelling dark moldy green upholstery).
Next thing I know, I'm playing what I think is video poker, but it's actually pinball, and I think I'm at the BigE (the game is a lot like this quarter sucking game I'm addicted to). I'm getting furious because the controls aren't working, until I realize that my controls actually affect the machine two players down.
As I'm getting ready to leave, I start talking about pinball-poker-playing strategy with Tim Curry. We decide to go, so I collect my token, which is actually a Big Y Silver coin.
Now "Tim" (like how we're on this first name basis?) and I are in my cellar, and we're defrosting my freezer. I'm chipping away at the ice, which is actually the color of beer, and we're talking about gardening.
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No, no drugs were involved.
Any arm chair psychiatrists want to take a stab at this one?