Last night I dreamed that I had a high school reunion at a Mexican restaurant in a treehouse in a giant baobob tree. It was really crowded, and I couldn't find a seat, so I just ordered a quesadilla at one of the tables and figured i'd catch it later. I never got to eat anything, but they gave me a bill for $19.99 for a margarita and a capicola sandwich, which are pretty much the last two things you could convince me to ingest right now. I protested and refused to pay, and they said, "You know what happens when you don't pay here, right?"
And what happened was they sent a whole passel of serial killers out to kill you. There was a tall pirate, a Scream guy, a Scooby-Doo style ghost, a Tarzan guy who hung people from the tree, and what finally got me outside the parking lot, a normal-looking fat guy with a tiny little knife like the fingernail cleaner on a tiny pair of toenail clippers. He slit me from throat to belly, laughed, and said, "Pay next time! Your family's next!" as my guts fell out. And then I woke up.
Thank you, hormones. Thanks a lot.