This one was about fried chicken and my cell phone.
Around a week ago I botched some chicken thighs. After soaking in buttermilk and dredging in flour, I plopped them into a ceramic pot with canola oil and everything went wrong from there. They were burnt near-black and cancerous, and after all my scraping, the meat underneath was flavorless and dry.
As for the dream, I received some solace for my botched chicken thighs. I am in some dream kitchen lit by halogens at night, entirely out of focus. A stranger takes a bite into a chicken thigh the size of a basketball, one I apparently cooked. I eagerly await his response, and am pleased to see yank his head back in satisfaction, dancing with the chicken thigh. He informs me that I can really throw down in the kitchen, and I nod my head and float into the next room.
I am suddenly naked in a bathroom, so I begin to shower. When I reach for the soap, I am instead holding my cell phone. Naturally, the thing gets wet, and begins to sag in my hands. Its density goes from aluminum, to gelatin, to mercury, rended in two in the palm of my hand. This irks me, though my panic doesn’t move me to try and save the phone. I let it slip from my hands, say fuck, and wake up.
It is upsetting to have a cell phone work its way into my sleep.