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Sigmund Freud said that dreams were the "royal road" to the unconscious--if so, he was absolutely right about us being a bunch of murderers and rapists at heart. Seeing as how, then, in that way at least, we're all much more interesting than we seem in real-life, let us explore our dreams together.
I was watching an episode of The Wonder Years: this was one chronicling the relationship between Arnold and his best friend Paul; the comedy, as usual, at his expense. Paul was exhibiting yet another of his embarrasing idiosynchrasies that often jeopardized Arnold's respect for him, playing with his precious pet collection in the pool. He let captive minnows swim about. Two baby kittens no larger than Coke cans he kept afloat on tiny boats resembling pool chairs. 
In the style of their signature Sixties/Seventies musical interludes the Jaws theme began, and one, a calico, leapt into the water to catch a fish. The story then turned to a fuzzy frog and its offspring (a miniature version, not a tadpole), each also drifting upon miniature platforms. The larger one swam out of control and sprung out of the pool and into an open container holding Mom's prize goldfish. It shook violently as the frog presumably feasted. The groundwork for drama had been laid.
Interpretation: I watch too much TV. My addiction is so great, furthermore, that my unconscious mind has not only lined up a schedule for while I'm asleep, but even also invented programming that I would only casually entertain in real life--fringe shows like The Wonder Years, for example.
This week's guest dreamer: Paul K.
I had this dream where I was in my kitchen, and I was engaged in some kind of religious ritual involving killing various christian ministers in prescribed ways according to denomination and drinking their blood. I don't remember every method, but the last one (before I woke up) had to be decapitated. This particular minister was a giraffe. I was talking to him when someone rushed from behind him and cut off his head, I think with an axe. A (tiny) giraffe head fell into my clear plastic cup of blood. (When the giraffe minister was decapitated, he was about my height, but he changed sizes like that guy in Fist of the North Star.) So there I was in my kitchen with a cup of blood in one hand and a cup of grape juice (to cut the taste) in my other hand. One of my housemates asked me a question, and I replied that I didn't know. He asked me why I answered all of his questions with "I don't know", and my answer was that I had been asleep all day. He than [sic] mentioned something about someone who was entering the kitchen from a door in a glass wall, but I was searching for one of my cups, which I had lost during our conversation. Notes: -There is only grape juice concentrate left in the house, and I had been drinking it almost exclusively for a few days. -I watched The Evil Dead the night before. -The dream occurred during a 2.5-hour night's sleep. -I think I was sleeping in an unnatural position because the cat beat me to the bed, and I had to sleep around it.Interpretation: while sleeping position generally has little bearing upon dream content (likewise the length of time between the closing and opening of the eyes--indeed, an epic saga can be experienced within but a blink), an unwitting and unwanted sleeping partner often invades more than the privacy of the bed. The simple housecat becomes a beast of monstrous dimension, its exercise of authority represented by religious rank, and is executed as welcome relief from the suffering it has caused. Blood is life, but sometimes grape juice will have to do.