Ask Dr. Rosenthal: Dreams, Desire & Celery
- Zee Zee Writer
- Jun 8
- 2 min read
Session Transcript: Partially Redacted for Sanity
ZEE ZEE:
Okay, Doc. I had another one.
I’m in the produce aisle at Jewel. The lights are flickering like an interrogation room. The air smells like despair and garlic knots. And there he is—the produce guy. You know the one. That kid who always looks like he’s been crying in the walk-in freezer.
He leans in close, whispers, “Limited-time-only, baby,” and holds up a bag of pre-sliced cantaloupe and a wilted stalk of celery like he’s about to perform some kind of salad-based seduction ritual.
And I’m into it, Sid. I feel my soul say “yes,” but my brain goes “girl, no,” and I wake up craving a Bloody Mary and questioning every decision I’ve ever made.
So…What the hell are dreams?
And can I ever put celery in a drink again without flinching?
DR. ROSENTHAL (calmly, like he’s been through this before):
Dreams are your brain’s late-night drunk dial, Zee. Two hours a night, your mind throws a masquerade ball—using fragments of memory, emotion, fear, and lust—all smashed together in a blender and served with a garnish of “what the hell was that?”
Some say dreams help us process emotions. Others say they’re filing cabinets for memories. Freud said you want to sleep with your dad. Jung said it’s all symbols and the collective unconscious. Me? I say your brain is working overtime to make sense of chaos with celery.
REM sleep is the big show. Your brain’s lit up like downtown Vegas, and the part that controls self-awareness goes rogue. Cue the seduction salad.
DR. ROSENTHAL (with the patience of a man who’s heard worse):
As for the celery…
It’s not the villain here. Just a crunchy little bystander caught in the crossfire of your subconscious. Innocent. Hydrating. Probably just wants to go back to being a garnish.
ZEE ZEE:
Innocent? That limp bastard came at me with lust and chlorophyll. I’m not forgiving it, Doc. I’m filing a restraining order.
Ask Dr. Rosenthal is a recurring column where I bring my emotional roadkill to a fictional therapist and he pretends not to flinch.
He’s calm, clinical, and always two sighs away from retirement.
I don’t know if he’s helping—but at least he listens.
— Zee Zee
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