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

Of the few people who wander by this little taco stand every once in awhile I imagine most of you out there have this idea in your heads that this guy - this typist (for let's call him what he really is) - he's kinda bright. He's got most of his i's dotted and t's crossed and he writes a funny line but I can at least understand him. He at least seems to make semi-coherent thoughts. He appears to have the power - the brain capacity - to formulate ideas onto paper, into the computer, out to the screen. So genius? No, not by a long shot but interesting, perhaps.. enough to come back once in awhile and gander at the new pickings.

Oh, I dunno.. maybe it's like watching a train wreck or a car accident. Maybe there is hope in the wretched of the earth?

Whatever. I'm here right now to tell you that you are wrong. Wrong if you think I got anything going on upstairs. Wrong if you think there are gears turning and whirring and spinning. Wrong if you think the marbles haven't rolled out the door and down the street yet..

Cause in matters of the heart, I am truly a lost cause. I'm a complete hopeless mess. I've not the foggiest thought in my head, not even a hint of an idea, the inkling of a solution, or a smidgen of a plan. Not when it comes to matters of the heart.

I've discussed before, in these pages, a matter of slight heartedness. Slight in the slight of hand sense. A good act a good show, Encore! Encore! Even I was hooked. The episodes came fast and furious at first and there was suspense. The story climbed quickly but perhaps too quickly and it wasn't long before it became strung out and tired.. but my point (I still have one, you know) is that it was more for the sense, the feel, the excitement than it was for the truth. Let's be honest, the doktor wasn't my type, now was she?

Okay. You're right. What's my type? I don't know. Do I have a type? What are types? It's an archaic system, to be sure.. these "types".

But if I had a type it wouldn't be the doktor. It wouldn't be some girl who, upon discovery of a blog in which she is discussed at length (and in favourable light, I might add) decides that it is certainly not acceptable, certainly a horrendous deal and she wants out.

If anyone knows what I'm talking about, bravo for studious attention.

So the doktor outs me - or we're presumed to think so based on the anonymous comment left. They out the blog and her role in it and adds "maybe she didn't call because she has been reading everything you've written"..

Saved by the bell. Saved again, really, by the natural wonders of the internet. The girl, ladies and gentleman, was not a keeper. And I say that with the utmost respect. I don't mean she isn't lovely and wonderful.. just certainly not my type.

Some would argue that I made a mistake in there somewhere. I guess that's my point. I made a mistake. In this case it happened to work out in my favour, my bumbling antics, but I can't always count on favour and luck. Sometimes I just have to make mistakes.

Today I wrote a piece of poetry. Not poetry really, but a few simple lines of text. This shouldn't be a big deal considering my relative diahrea of the keyboard daily displayed here.. but it was a big deal because it was particularly bad poetry. It was also particularly badly timed. And nothing, my friends, nothing is worse than badly timed bad poetry.

There is something - I like to call it the cheesy-80's-movie-dilemma - that we all experience every once in awhile. It usually involves matters of the heart and the dilemma is usually whether or not to do something really dumb in front of or for a special someone. This can be anything from going over to your favourite girls house to do stupid human tricks on the lawn to holding your boom box over your head in the middle of the night on your girlfriends lawn to camping out for eight days on your crushes lawn.. okay.. see a trend here?

You thought I meant the lawn.

No, I'm talking about the girl. And the bit about doing stupid shit. You know, I'd like to be of the school that says if they like you, if you have a living chance in hell, then no amount of stupid dumb shit will ruin it. But everyone flunks out of that school, and for a good reason.

If a butterfly flaps it's wings in China, we get hurricane Isabella over here.. And as things are with matters of the heart. Cause and effect. Tiny causes. Huge effect.

I had more to say but I'll be honest. I just lost it. It's a little too late and I'm a little too tired. Let me just end with this universal warning for you all - girls and boys alike:

Think before you act. Don't do dumb shit. Especially dumb shit like this:

you are quite a lovely flower,
Oh to be your honey bee.