Woke up strange.
Meant to note this earlier, but what with one thing or another. —Dreamed last night (and while I’m sure I dream as much as the next fellow, I don’t often remember my dreams, so) that I was headed to Michigan to meet someone I can only assume was Lindsay Beyerstein so we could spend the next three months tooling up and down the East Coast, following Michael Bérubé on a book tour. I can only assume it was her because I’ve never actually met Lindsay Beyerstein; I have not, to my immediate recollection, even spoken with her via chat or email. But she had short blond hair and when I asked for something warm to put on (it was cold, you see, in Michigan), she gave me a jet-black hoodie.
Lindsay: I have to apologize for how strangely cold I became. The handwritten note that was slipped under the door when neither of us was looking, the one I grabbed and wouldn’t let you see? Whatever I read there made me suddenly distrust you. But just because I could read it in the dream has nothing to do with whether or not I could actually read it, and some of the questions I was starting to rather belligerently ask were really just me getting frustrated with how much of a jerk I was being and trying to figure out what was really going on. Since I wasn’t telling myself, see.
—We never did get to the East Coast, which is fine, since I’ve never met Bérubé before either, and I’d have no idea what to say to him. Maybe this is why I don’t too terribly often bother to remember my dreams.
I’ve met you and Lindsay Beyerstein and Michael Bérubé. Obviously I’m controlling your dreams.
Yeah, well, I’ve eaten eastern european food in Queens with all four of you, as long as we’re wrestling for control of the collective unconscious here.
I suggest hockey, btw.
Y’know, if y’all are gonna go tromping about in there, the least one of you could have done is arrange a proper introduction.
I’ve only met Lindsay, and now I’m feeling impoverished.
I bow to Julia’s obviously superior blogger-social fu. Eek.