Note to self: Eat all the crunchy stuff you can before this time tomorrow!

I was going to use this entry to talk about seeing the babies last night, but I just found a poem written to me by one of my dearest friends. It came about as the result of an email from me, whining and complaining about how I've turned into possibly one of THE most boring people to walk the earth. We have tons of history, both good and not so good, and have managed to create a long distance friendship I'm almost certain I couldn't live without. I think I'd rather thrust Stephen into the spotlight today. He deserves to be published.

IF I WAS INTERESTING ONCE . . .

If I was interesting once, what made me so?

If I tasted imagination, how did I know?

I simply know, today, and can�t deny . . .

That I can�t think of tomorrow.

That amid the pain and sorrow,

Somehow, I've forgotten how to fly.

I recall past days of eager bliss,

When I was oft caressed and often kissed,

By inspiration, perspiration,

And lovers long since missed.

In truth, I think they miss me not,

They meant to write, somehow forgot,

They lack muse inspiration,

With so much time and perspiration spent

On improving their lot.

I recall too, advice with love dispensed,

�If you would be interesting, be interested . . .�

Perhaps, then, the truth still lies within,

After all, is that not where all truth begins?

If, amid the hurry scurry days that never end,

I no longer crave the news,

And I no longer share my life with friends . . .

I reminisce about the hearts I�ve touched,

And all the paths I�ve taken.

The detours, and the days spent idle,

And all the roads forsaken.

But at least I travelled,

In my heart and in my mind,

Eager to explore the world without

And within,

And didn�t give a second thought to fear

For what I�d find.

I simply was,

And simply did.

I was interesting then.

I was interested then.

Then . . .

Posted at 3:06 p.m.