You don't even know, dude.

Welcome to today's edition of The Story of My Life:

The sequence of events is as follows:

• Mary meets with One of the Totally Cool Punk Kids Who I (not-so) Secretly Wish Were My Friend today, and he is awesome, and he is in a Cool Punk Kid Band.
• Mary cannot recall the name of said kid's band, but merely that it was something he "couldn't explain in school" and we're playing the "can you remember any details" game. She says "um...several words? One beginning in....M?"
• I, using my powers of Punk Kid deduction say "Mung"?
• I am correct. The kid's band is, in fact, named "Mung Choke." We found them on myspace. We're totally going to a show. We're totally doing it. You don't even know.
• One of their band's myspace pictures features one of the punk boys I was hearts-for-eyes-for in high school. For realzises. THAT IS MY LIFE.

Mary wonders why I know the word "Mung." I remind her that, while she dated all the boys fitting the descriptions of boys I loved in high school, I merely loved them from afar which required far more detective work. Being a Creepy Swooning Stalker is a lot of work - you don't even know.

That's right: my most marketable skill is immediately being able to guess the Weird and Dirty word that Crazy Punk Boys are thinking.

So, I have The Plague (a bad head cold) which means I'm currently blessed with Fever Dreams. Fever Dreams, as it would have it, are great indicators of Things That Are On My Mind. Examples:

• I dreamt that a Hot Young Doctor named Julian was nursing me back to health. I have been watching a lot of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine lately. If you don't get it, you don't need to get it.
• I dreamt about really cute husky-shephard puppies who looked at me with their adorable puppy eyes and asked, "et tu Brutus?" Yes, my dreams of puppies are also dreams bout me being a meanypants...and involve Shakespeare. If you don't get it - it means...I don't want you to know how much of a meanypants I am. I am hiding my mean shame.
• I dreamt that my friend Greg and I were shopping, but also we were at a rave, and I'm pretty sure that we were also running some sort of relay race which involved us forcing people who weren't single to make out and I knew we were breaking up relationships, and it was very uncomfortable. Also, I think there were whales involved. Obviously - this is the dream most tied to Logical Things In My Life.

So sometimes I don't write blog posts for Forever because, you know, I'm bad at writing about The Real Things In My Life. So - real things happened. I met some puppies. I went up to C'ville for the Wash's Banquet Weekend, etc, etc, etc.

Head cold 2xtreme. 3xtreme, even.

It keeps you warm too, doesn't it?

It used to be the case such that I could only post things online after midnight. Considering I go to bed at 9pm these days - I think pushing 11 is dangerously late enough.

It's windy outside and despite the fact that it's still 60 something degrees, I imagine it's chilly. In true Meg On The Internet fashion, weather patterns such as these combined with the sudden Late Night Stir Crazies make me wish I were a runner. Well - more specifically, a runner across the forlorn moors, filled with a wistful passion witnessed only by the moon and the heart of her lover, stirring somewhere in the deepest of night. Tendrils of hair, softly caressed by the shivering wind, as well as sighs like the wings of a dove are also featured prominently in this scenario.

(True story: I've thought more than once - more than twice, even - about writing a romance novel. I think I'd try to make it a choose-your-own-adventure post modern experience. I am not actually being facetious right now.)

True story, the second: the reason I like the Idea Of Boyfriends is that I like the idea of someone who goes out and runs away with you when you're feeling restless. Autonomy? Sense of self? Individual goals and dreams? Pssshhhhht. Please. He needs to have (1)the flying kind of dragon, (2)a penchant for escaping into darkest of night like the last glimmers of the sunset and (3)something that makes him a feisty, yet non-problematic foil. True story the second, part deux: sometimes I wonder whether or not I'll encourage my children to read fantasy novels growing up.

Aside from non-problematic male foil characters, I have pretty much two weaknesses when it comes to OMGBOYZ. Those two, for anyone who knows me well, are certainly floppy hair and beards. Long has my beard love been mocked. Long has my call for the hirsute gone unanswered. Long have I stood, the lone girl in favor of the face blanket.

But - my friends - my hour has come. Yes, MSNBC confirms it: 2009 is the year of the beard.

Perhaps we saw this coming - perhaps the hipster (were the hipster to self-identify in the first place, let alone acknowledge trends' power over him) would say he's been rocking the beard for at least a year now. Perhaps the hipster isn't wrong.

I am just thoroughly pleased to see a few things here, really. First and foremost - I am excited to see public sentiment sway in favor of the well-trimmed beard. They look so good on so many men, especially when properly maintained and, for the sake both of my male friends and my eye-candy, I am pleased. Secondly - and this is a big one - I am exceedingly pleased that MSNBC mentions the stubble issue.

Recently, I've become something of an anti-stubble activist. Dear dudes: we know it looks manly. Trust me, you're rugged like you don't even know. But you know what else you're doing? Rubbing our faces with shark skin. If you're one of those guys who has 3-day stubble by 5pm then, well, maybe you should be a beard man. Otherwise I can almost guarantee you've made at least one partner tear up, if not bleed. Melodramatic? Possibly. True? Certainly. Dear dudes, again: the time has come to stop claiming ignorance! The time has come to make your faces nice places to hang out! The time has come to go beard or go home.

Third, I am glad that the beard is in, which - while closely related to the mustache, is not the mustache and, perhaps, will kick the mustache out of fashion again. Let me explain - there are people who are allowed to have mustaches. Those people include: my father, Snidley Whiplash, dapper gentlemen taking ladies for a ride on their bicycles built for two, and a select number of Distinguished Older Gentlemen. Anyone who sports a 1970s porn 'stache, however, should seriously reconsider his decision. By "seriously reconsider his decision" I mean to say, of course, that he looks dumb. And creepy. And dumb. Join that mustache up with your chin hair and make something respectful of it! As I said before: go beard or go home.

Lastly - Zak mentioned that The Beard Is Coming Back, and I was not kidding when I said that was the best news I heard all night. See, Zak? The nation is behind your beard. The beard is your accessory, your means of self expression, your flair. With your impressive beard, you can make more bearded friends! You can have beard societies! You can...you know...introduce me to said bearded friends.

Make sure one of them has one of the flying kind of dragon, okay? Or, you know, at least some respectable floppy hair.

I do believe in fairies, I do, I do!

I wasn't lying when I told Katie that, very often, the thing I love most about visiting friends on the weekends are those Sunday mornings when everyone finds themselves draped over various couches, missing a sock or two, and enjoying the thought of watching televising, rehydrating, and curling up in a sunlit patch like the kind of cat I always wanted to be - but doing it all together.

While this past weekend in C'ville probably can't be summed up in "moments that were my favorite" it featured several "moments that were perfect."

I miss waking up on Saturday to do service projects, especially on beautiful days like this past Saturday. I miss that loud, boisterous group of rakers and diggers and people genuinely enjoying being out in the world, together, and helpful.

While up in the 'Ville I also managed to: go on a milkshake quest, finally take some of those "jumping in the air" pictures I'm always so covetous of, creep out some people who don't know me too well, and spend a really quality Sunday with three wonderful people. My Sunday, really, was paced just as Sundays should be paced, and that is quite the feat.

Stay tuned for an update on beards. Beards: my favorite thing.

Ole' yellow eyes...

In today's installment of Things That Are Confusing To Me we find: a big hoo-hah and necessary apology by Michael Phelps for a bong picture.

I suppose to say I "don't get it" is simplistic. I get it: role models, illegal action, etc etc.

But...I don't really get it. I mean, okay, sure - be mad at him if we discover that, during the off season he is doing all sorts of crazy, illegal performance enhancing drugs. But - do these people realize what's going on here?

He's smoking. Smoking. The fastest swimmer in the world is still the fastest swimmer in the world even with potential smoke damage to his lungs.

You know why we should be pissed off: BECAUSE HE'S TOO GOOD. I can't swim that fast, and I'm not smoking - NO FAIR.

Call me when he apologizes for being an android. That, folks, is an apology I'll accept.