I had a dream this morning, which is very rare for me as I'm quite a deep sleeper. I was a combination of Michael Keaton and Erik Estrada, and I was wearing overalls and a white shirt. I was standing in a field with my wife, a dark-haired woman whose face I could not see. She was doing cartwheels in front of our house and was suddenly shot through the neck. I ran to our front door, but could not open it. Then, the man on our porch shot me. I had not seen him as I'd run to the door, even though he was the one who shot my wife. He was a ratty beachcomber type, with a white button shirt, short shorts, sandals, and a beard like Jesus. He walked in through the garage and the police, who had suddenly arrived, could not shoot him. They shot and shot, but always missed, and he killed a couple of them. He had a very unconcerned look on his face. I then consciously decided, as the omniscient narrator, that unless they are Clint Eastwood, I hate these types of unstoppable killers. So, I had the actor Eric Begosian shoot him in the back of the head. I liked having that kind of control over a dream, instead of just helplessly letting it happen.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
32. I want to be the best thing that ever happened to you--and for you to recognize this.
(Before I begin, a caveat: I am one undeservedly fortunate bastard. I am an American, from an upper-middle class, well-educated background [I am at least the fourth consecutive generation to attend college]. I was born in the late 20th century, a time of unmatched prosperity and potential. I am smart, and I am loved. These things did not "happen" to me, they are who I am. Similarly, my beloved brother did not happen to me. I have no memory of a time before David; so, from my perspective there was not a time before David. He is a fact of my being, an integral part of who I am for whom I am grateful to God each and every day, even if he doesn't believe in Him. That said....)
She is, and I do, but in honoring her wishes I cannot tell her so. I cannot even describe her to you. How do I articulate the majesty in her eyes? The glorious mischief in her smile? The heaven and hell in her voice? How do you describe the greatest thing to even happen to you? How do I live with the cruelty, unintended though it was, of her sending me this list? How do I make people realize that in all the earth there is none so lucky as I? She is the best thing that ever happened to me, and so I wait. I wait, and I remember the words of Alfred Bester, the first line of chapter one of The Stars My Destination, "He was one hundred and seventy days dying and not yet dead."

I will be helping my sister move to Washington, D.C. from Friday until the following Wednesday. It should be a glorious adventure.