and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

Metrosexual

First and foremost - props to the BOTM (blog of the moment). Metrosexual, previously Diary of an Adulterer, is proving to be a good solid read every day. More props should be given to people who post solid and sizely amounts of material on a somewhat regular schedule so that we, the lackluster performers of the blog community, might have something to enjoy while not posting but instead reading. She has been added to the list.

Secondly - just when I was about to post the obligatory bi-monthly My friends are fuckers post and gripe on and on about the lack of communication, the lack of heart, the lack of effort... I come and find a post by one aschwa5 to lift my spirits. I also found another natalie letter in my inbox this morning (after days and days of inbox starvation). You can see aschwa5's post below, so I won't paraphrase that (but I'm glad I was, in the end, rambling on to the correct voicemail). As far as Natalie goes, some choice tidbits:

I would never get rid of you Mike...I am still rereading the books you recommended in high school and now you make me laugh!! Wow.. two exclamation points. I'm flattered.

p.s. have you learned to give people diarreah yet? fill me in.
Myself. Meditate on cleansing the problems of your great grandparents or parents and that cleanses your body too. I got an inflammed colon and thought that I had appendicitis...I have to yell at my accupuncturist.

Last night I talked with a girl. Friendly and without pretext I had a drink and we talked and the drink was done and we sat, alone, in the empty bar and talked some more and laughed and nodded with sidelong glances and agreed and motivated each other to be better at the things we know would make us happy if we did them. We walked through the empty streets and left off at a corner with a nod of the head and a smile and heads-down we braved the chill of the late winter breeze blowing dust and garbage down Congress St. mere feet from the spot where the Olympia Sports man got stabbed to death over a pair of $30 - nay, $29.95 - windpants. I drove home with windows down and fingers aching in the cold and the lights of the city blinking and shining in my windshield. Home to my apartment in an old building with a nice view and big huge windows and a porch and a finicky doorknob. Home where my heart, satiated from a fine evening with a good friend, is. I laid down in bed with the iPod next to me - Creedance tinkling softly out of the tiny earbuds - volume set so low the meter looked to be zero. The cord curled across my chest as it heaved up and sunk down with each long breath. My mind wandered at Susie Q and back with Have You Ever Seen The Rain. I lay there, as The Dude lays on his rug - which really ties the room together - listening to my soundtrack of life - the hum of my bowling ball as it rolls down the pine lane of life.

If life is a String it's been awhile since I've bowled a strike