Conspiracy to commit freud

Last night, I dreamt that I was a yellow plate displayed on a narrow wooden shelf high above a floor of orange ceramic tile. I suppose I was a sentient plate, because I was conscious of the floor and thought, "If I fall all the way down onto that tile, I'm going to shatter." As soon as I thought this, of course, I tilted forward, flipped over the edge of the shelf and began to fall.

Suddenly, I was human again and running down flight after flight of stairs in the cinderblock stairwell of a decaying office building that had devolved into a crackhouse. Swatting the fluorescent lights from my face, I reached the basement and proceeded into the furnace room. There, wielding a machine gun made of....wait for it....orange ceramic tile, stood the head dealer of said crackhouse. As he swung the muzzle toward me, I pulled my gun (where it came from, I couldn't tell you) and aimed it for his heart. We were in a deadlock.

"You've forgotten one thing," he said as a grin slithered over his face. "You're the ice woman and I've got a flamethrower." With that, he sprayed me with a stream of fire that, instead of melting me, covered my skin in frost.

And then I woke up.

To my subconscious, I would just like to say: Thank you, Captain Obvious.