This is my site. It's not yours. If it was yours, I probably wouldn't be writing in it. Or at least not as much. And you'd probably be the protagonist, not me.

This site contains no nudity. You should be grateful for that, after seeing how many home movies I have here. This site does, however, contain a fair amount of profanity, especially the blog entries. I could go back and change everything to give the site a more family-friendly rating but I don't fucking want to.

So, if you're under 18 years old, then you should leave this site, and get off my lawn. If you're an adult, yet some kind of pansy who's offended by adult language in a personal blog, it would probably be a good idea for you to leave also.

If you're too horrified to look away, however, I invite you to stick around and see what my little corner of the Internet has to offer.

It felt like I'd forgotten to wear pants.

It was Wednesday, I think. I was sitting in the throne at Rich O's. Or somebody was sitting there. I'm not convinced that it was me, despite numerous testimonies.

It was like one of those dreams. You're at school and everything is cool and then you notice that you're not wearing any pants.

I'd definitely forgotten something. Where was it? What was it?

Then, Thursday night, it felt like I had an itch. One I couldn't scratch. Not one of those annoying itches in the middle of your back that you can't reach, but deeper. Under the skin. In my heart or my brain or my soul - I couldn't pin it down. It was an irritating itch, but it wasn't unbearable.

Dammit, it should have been unbearable.

I'm not really sure what's happening.

HatGirl thinks I'm being stoic. But it's not that. It's something else. I'm something else.

Tonight was another weird night. I knew exactly what I was supposed to be feeling, but I couldn't quite get there. I was a needle on a record player, running parallel to the music but never quite in the right groove.

I hope I haven't become a pod person. I hate pod people.

Everybody up here looks like somebody. It's the weirdest thing.

It's not like when I go to most cities, and everyone looks familiar, like I might have seen them before. It's also not like the last time I was in Las Vegas, when every girl I saw reminded me of either LaptopGirl or Hatgirl. Nope, up here in Bellingham, everybody looks like a specific person that I know.

All hyperbole aside, it's a phenomenon that's happening often enough that it freaks me out a little.

Up here, I've had a beer with a girl who looked so much like SassyGirl that I almost gave her a hug when she sat next to me. I've gotten my hairs cut by a girl I dated in high school. I've seen MusicalYuppieDude lose badly at poker. I've seen CrazyGirl get shitfaced enough to make moves on TallLady. I've seen my sister Dina having dinner at Olive Garden. I go to a gas station in the mornings and buy a Diet Pepsi from the fucking dipshit, of all people.

And, of course, I've seen HatGirl and LaptopGirl about twenty times each.

I could go on and on. There have probably been fifty instances of these things.

Sometimes, it's felt like I wasn't gone at all.

I got some sleep. About four hours before my phone woo-hooed me awake. And then work called with some minor crisis. Better than no sleep, which is what I got Saturday night. I was so sad Saturday night. I made quite a spectacle of myself, I'm sure. Saying my goodbyes to everyone and everything that matters to me. Clinging to HatGirl and LaptopGirl as if my life depended on being with them. Which it does.

See, when I left for Washington in November, I suspected that it would be tough. But Saturday night, as I prepared to return for another month, I knew what it meant. There was no doubt. No hope.

But then there was a screw-up, and I didn't have to leave Sunday morning after all. I got myself an extra day. Not that I did much with it. Sat around dreading the feeling of isolation that was waiting for me in Bellingham, as far away from here as you can get, and still be in the continental U.S.

I leave for the airport in an hour and a half. Then ninety minutes to Chicago, then four hours to Seattle, then two hours driving to Bellingham. Each minute and each mile it will get worse and worse.

People try to help. They really do, and I really appreciate it, sometimes. They tell me to use my trip as an opportunity. To get better. To realize that I can, once again, enjoy my own company. But they don't understand. I don't want help. I need to miss them. I need to have a reason to come back, to get up in the mornings, to keep breathing.

People don't want me to be sad anymore. I don't know if it's so they'll feel more comfortable around me, or because of guilt, or out of genuine concern. It's probably a combination of those things. But they don't understand. It's not about the sadness. It's about the love. The sadness is a side-effect, thrust upon me by these circumstances. But it's not what's important. It's not what I cling to.

To get rid of the sadness, I'd have to get rid of the love. And that can't be done. Not by me. Every time I've tried, it's felt like I was putting a gun to my head, about to pull the trigger. This is so much a part of me, and has been for so long, that to end it would be to end everything that matters to me. It would be suicide.

Now, I fully support a person's right to end their own life on their own terms, but it's not for me. So I can't. I won't. Instead, I'll suffer. It's what I do. It's all I can do, for now. For the next month.

After that, who knows?

You know what's funny? Or maybe not funny, but I call it funny because it keeps my wrists intact and my brains inside my skull?

It's always the same thing. Every year on this date, I try to do one thing and I end up doing another. I try to reflect on the year's events, and I end up having a séance of sorts.

Well, except for last year. But last year was special.

Tonight, I spent midnight alone. After last year, I really and truly thought that I would never be alone again on New Year's Eve. But, I was.

Oh, well, right?

This year, instead of the usual fifteen minutes, I was outside for an hour and a half. Well, it was an eventful year, you might think.

Wrong.

Not about 2009 being eventful, but about that having anything at all to do with my being outside for seventy-five minutes longer than usual.

What went wrong? What went right? What progress was made? What setbacks were encountered?

How can I do better, in 2010? How can I be worthy, in 2010?

Hi! How are you? I miss you.

The year 2009 saw lots of things. But they're all irrelevant. All except for one thing. One person.

I didn't want to have a séance this year. But, I expected it to happen.

And, it did.

Funny, right?

Too many excuses. I'd say that there are a million of them, but I've already been called on using that number too often. It's just another excuse. So, instead, I'll say lots.

And when one or two or a hundred are disproved, there are scores more waiting to take their place. Or, even easier, memory becomes conveniently optional.

I'm supposed to be having fun. Everything is supposed to be a lark.

Tra-la-la-la-la-la-fucking-la.

But it doesn't work that way. Not for me.

For me, this is too important to take lightly. It's my life after all. The only one I have.

And this, this whatever-it-is that keeps me going. I don't even know what to call it sometimes. Stupid hope is usually the term that I employ.

But is hope ever really stupid?

Everyone On Earth tells me that it is, in this particular case. That doesn't make them right.

This is hurting nobody except myself. It's my choice, and I do choose it. Choice is something I didn't have for a very long time, but now I do. Now I have a choice and nothing else has changed.

Anyway, in a little less than 20 hours, this year will end for me. This year in which everything fell apart. This year in which everything continues to fall apart. Constantly crumbling into smaller and smaller pieces.

I can't fucking wait for this year to end.

This really blows. But you already knew that, didn't you?

Again, why are you here?

Oh, because you're stupid, that's why.

I almost forgot who I was talking to.

I'm not really sure what my mood is. I mean, I'm angry, but it kinda feels normal. Like this is how I'm supposed to feel.

Angry, and a little sad.

It feels like the real me.

Also, I seriously doubt that I'll sleep at all tonight.

Also, I should just stay home tomorrow night. No good would be served by my presence anywhere else. I think that's been proven enough times.

No, I really haven't abandoned this journal. No, I'm not dead. No, I'm not in prison.

I guess it's just the same old same old. The things I want to write, I can't. The things I don't want to write? Well, I don't.

This too, shall pass. Eventually one dam or another will break, and everything will start pouring onto my keyboard again.

But, for now, here's an entry from July 2007.

I've decided to try an experiment. I'm just going to type. Whatever comes into my head, I'm going to let it flow out through my fingers.

I don't expect this to be anything good. Or interesting. I suppose that I do expect it to be real, though. And that's gotta be worth something.

I'm a sucker for tears from a woman. Wait, that doesn't sound quite right. Because the word sucker implies that I'm being deceived. That I'm being naive. And I'm not. At least usually I'm not. Usually the tears are real.

They cut right through me. Make me want to drop everything else in my life and do something, anything to help make the tears stop. Even if I don't have a fucking clue what I should do or say, the need to do or say something is almost overwhelming.

That's pretty normal, I think. To want to help someone in need.

But then there's the other thing. The realization that something special is happening. The realization that I'm seeing a girl at her most open and honest, and that she feels comfortable enough to share that kind of intimacy with me. It makes me feel a little bit special, and a part of me actually wishes that it would continue for a while longer, so I could feel special for a while longer.

If I could somehow milk the tears. Control their pace and their ferocity to something manageable. Ride that wave for as long as I can, and carry the intimacy that we're sharing along for the ride.

I think that tears are a lot like orgasms. A woman is never more real to me than when she's crying, or when she's climaxing. At those times, she's her most primal self. Her most authentic self. No bullshit. No games. No doubts. Just her. The real her, and she's sharing it with me, of all people.

I want to help. I really do. To turn my back would be just incredibly selfish, and that's one thing I'm not. But what if I can't help? What if I shouldn't help? I mean, maybe I'm just supposed to listen. Maybe I'm just supposed to be there for her, offer a shoulder to lean on, lend an ear, say a kind word every now and then.

I want to help, I really do. But if I can't, if I shouldn't, then I'd still want to be there. I'd still want to share that intimacy. I'd still want to feel special for a while.

I don't think that makes me selfish. I think that makes me human.

Human. Imagine that.