I think it was a couple weeks ago when I thought it was a shame you can't dream when you're dead. My dreams of late have been very, very good, so good, in fact, I want to dream more than I desire to be conscious. Of course, that's not right; probably borders on insanity.

A lot has been going on here. We bought a pickup Friday. It's a red 2003 Ford Ranger Edge SuperCab. It has the towing option so we might be able to get a travel trailer sometime in the future. I know getting the truck was not something I should've done, but the wife went along with it so what am I to say. I have a tendency to be financially irresponsible and she can't say no to anything I do. Rather a pathetic pair if you ask me.

The one good thing we're getting with the inheritance is a new roof. The deal is done and all we have to do is wait for the job scheduler to call and let us know when they'll be out. We still owe them about $10K.

Not writing, period. Have thought about writing. Even thought about writing a short story, but realized I couldn't get it to go anywhere. I was writing it in response to a documentary I'd seen on Logo this weekend and a kid I saw at our Mexican restaurant yesterday. It was about a father who begins to suspect his son, Mike, is gay. He wants to say something, but is afraid of stepping into something he's not welcome. Then Steve enters Mike's life. In the words of the Mike's father, "Steve was pretty, but not in a girly or fem way. He was simply pretty, maybe even beautiful. He was nearly as tall as Mike, but without the bulk of a jock. Yet, he didn't lack muscles that might belie too much time in front of a computer or television. His voice was tinged with some nonspecific accent as if his parents were from another country and he grew up speaking their language, but dropped it when entering school."

I tried to work the story in my mind, but couldn't see where this story could possibly end up. I just can't concentrate long enough to get the story to go anywhere.