It seems as though I woke up on the melancholy side of the bed this morning. Last night I had a dream about Ben Jones, a boy I loved in college. The dream was so fun and full of that special chemistry that makes you feel hopeful and alive that I was saddened to be jarred from it by the alarm clock.

Waking up to the fact that I have nothing with no one has left me weepy and moody. It doesn’t help that I haven’t had any coffee yet and the soundtrack to my pity party is provided by Frank Sinatra.

I don’t like to spend too much time analyzing my dreams because I of the belief that they are often times nothing more than your brains dumping of your subconscious garbage.

But when my subconscious is out to get me, it is a reason for pause.

I spent a very lot of time yesterday kind of exhilarated and excited. Paul Westerberg.net has filled me with the kind of creative energy I haven’t had in a long time.

So why in the hell did my subconscious decide to sucker punch me right in the heart? Fucker. It’s as though I said to myself, “eh, eh, eh don’t be too smug and satisfied, there’s this whole other area of your life that completely sucks balls. You cannot drown out your loneliness with creativity, whore.”

Yeah, myself sounds a lot like me, and I hate that.