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Ask Dr. Shill - Corporate Dream Analyst

Dear Dr. Shill,
I've been having this strange recurring dream lately. In it, I'm sitting alone in an apartment I used to share with my ex-boyfriend when my heart just sort of hops out of my chest and lands on the floor. Curiously, this doesn't harm me physically; rather, I find it quite enthralling and sit staring at it for some time. Then suddenly it sprouts a pair of small shoes, a cane grows out of one of its ventricles, and a hat appears on top of its head as if it were some little old man. Then it doffs its hat, tucks its cane under its artery and walks right out the door! After he leaves, an immense sadness overcomes me. What do you make of this?

Confused,
Amanda Love

Dear Amanda,
You certainly seem to have a case of the "blahs". The fact that in your dream you're sitting alone in an empty apartment staring at the walls suggests that your subconscious need for quality in-house-entertainment is not being met. Luckily for you DirecTV now offers an even larger selection of exciting entertainment than before, at a price that certainly won't give you nightmares. Yes Amanda, your heart will never have reason to abandon you when it's busy racing in your chest along with every electrifying NASCAR event of the year, or melting to the newest romantic drama as it premiers on one of the four premium movie channels DirecTV delivers! - Dr. S

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Dear Dr. Shill,

I had a dream last week that was so troubling I've had a difficult time sleeping ever since. In it, I'm waiting in line at a local bookstore with a number of people my age (I'm 77 years old) to meet my favorite actor Wilford Brimley, who is signing copies of his new autobiography. What should be a happy occasion however is deflated by the black clad store employees, whose grim, icy glares chill my heart from every corner of the room. Strangely, I see two of my grandchildren amongst these employees and wave, but they just stare grimly back, a pair of menacing smirks on their lips. Then, at the front of the line my son Michael and his wife Denise are standing by the closed door of the room Mr. Brimley is in, letting six of us old buzzards' (as they contemptuously put it) in at a time. When my turn comes, I'm shoved with five others into the room - which proves to be a large closet containing a mannequin with a big bushy white moustache and a top hat sitting at a card table - and as someone shouts "Hey, that's not Wilford Brimley!" a couple of smoking canisters fall from the ceiling

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