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

I feel so proud to be part of this Blog, man. True, I am a fucking unreliable blogger; bipolar, at best, with my manic phases only approaching prolific. But for real, I like what you're doing here. And maybe it's just me, but the last month or so was an interesting fucking read.

So, I've been skateboarding upon returning to SB. Inspired by YPT and my success in Mtl. Yesterday I had a bit of an incident . . . not really a story to report elsewhere. There's a hill leading down to Goleta Beach, which is paved beautifully, and a manageable slope of let's say, 15 degrees. Except that it's pretty fucking long, and get narrow near the end. So, I'm carving down it, as I've seen someone do before, weighting the front of the board just like snowboarding, and feeling good and fucking proud of myself. Keeping it under control. Until the last 20 feet, where it narrows, and I just go straight. I was maybe doing 18 mph - just faster than I could run at top speed, and the board started to wobble something awful. And then, right near the flattening part that was going to slow me to safety, I saw the giant gap. Should've checked it out before hand, I suppose. Alas. I realize I am not going to make it. That mother fucker must have ollied over it past my field of vision, or something. Anyway, somehow, I manage to fly off my board cleanly upon impact and land on my feet. It was a fucking miracle. I land maybe six or sever feet away. My board landed about 30 feet away, in the perpendicular direction. Facking weird. I have decided I like my ankles more than I like skateboarding, and that snow is happier than asphalt.

So, fucking Tony makes 170 in a day? a day??? That's fucking ridiculous. Ask your readers for a new Ipod. Or how about just enough coin to buy some SELF-RESPECT, asshole. You facker. My buddy in Milwaukee was bragging to me about his impending move to a 1,200 sq ft apt, with 15 ft ceilings, for 800 USD. I managed to burst his bubble with your story. Dude. I'm so fucking excited to mistreat some french canadians in your club-like living room. That's how I described it him, and the more I think of it, that's totally accurate. You're living room is as big as Miami's, anyway.

I feel worse about telling your readers I hate them. I don't feel entitled after my long absence. And there are so many now. How do I know if I still hate them all? And maybe they'll get you an Ipod. Then I definitely would have a harder time rationalizing my unbridled and totally unjustified irritation. I feel it creeping, though.