Because you know you care, here's every town I've ever lived in, in order:

Maplewood, Indiana: 1965-1966
Lanesville, Indiana: 1966-1971
Maplewood, Indiana: 1971-1983
San Antonio, Texas: 1983
Biloxi, Mississippi: 1983
Belleville, Illinois (3 places): 1983-1985
Mascoutah, Illinois: 1985-1986
Belleville, Illinois: 1986
Bellevue, Nebraska (4 places): 1986-1989
Plattsmouth, Nebraska: 1989-1991
Bellevue, Nebraska: 1991-1992
Auburn, Washington: 1992-1993
Kent, Washington: 1993-1994
Auburn, Washington: 1994
Metairie, Louisianna: 1994-1995
Kent, Washington: 1995-1997
Anchorage, Alaska: 1997
Kent, Washington: 1997-1998
Memphis, Tennessee: 1998
Maplewood, Indiana: 1998-1999
Georgetown, Indiana: 1999-present

Isn't that exciting?

Four jobs I have had:
1. Computer Programmer
2. Pool League Operator
3. Bartender
4. Computer Consultant

Four Movies I can watch over and over again:
1. Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure
2. Independence Day
3. Dances With Wolves
4. The Matrix

Four Places I have lived:
1. Bellevue, Nebraska
2. Kent, Washington
3. Metairie, Louisianna
4. Anchorage, Alaska

Four of my favorite dishes:
1. Pizza Hut thin-crust ham & pineapple pizza
2. Chili - with beef and pasta, but no beans
3. Blackened fish from Red Lobster
4. Cheeseburger and fries

Four TV shows I like:
1. 24
2. Lost
3. Survivor
4. My Name is Earl

Four places I've vacationed:
1. Las Vegas, Nevada
2. Portland, Maine
3. Gatlinburg, Tennesse
4. Lake Chelan, Washington

Four sites I visit Daily:
1. Journalspace
2. Fark
3. Dooce
4. Slashdot

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. At home
2. Las Vegas
3. Belgium
4. Antarctica

So I'm not in the best of moods right now.

Hard to believe, I know. I'm usually nothing but giggles and grins and I shit fluffy bunnies.

I don't know what that means.

After work I went by Rich O's. SassyGirl's Gay Night thingy is really picking up steam, and I'm not needed there anymore. In fact, I'm quite literally in the way. I realized this fact pretty quickly, so I just had myself a Dark Horse Tres Blueberry Stout (80) and then left.

I didn't even bother to say goodbye to anyone. I do that sometimes, partly because I'm a dick, but mostly because I don't want to have to explain myself and my mood when a bunch of strangers are sitting around listening.

Right now would be a good time to have a million dollars. Quite unlike all those other times when having a million dollars would just suck. If I had it right now, I'd go somewhere. I don't know where I'd go, but I'd just disappear for a while. No cell phone. No laptop. No nothing. I was reading another journal today in which the guy wrote about maybe going to Russia or Japan. The idea the guy had was to just get away from everything - including the language and the cultures that he's accustomed to.

It sounded like a good idea to me. But, then again, a lot of things sound like a good idea until you actually do them.

I did think about traveling a lot today. Easter weekend is coming up, and I'll be going somewhere for that. I don't have a fucking clue where though. I think about maybe going back to Portland, or maybe New York City, or maybe even Niagara Falls. I also think about going to Myrtle Beach, and that's probably my leading choice right now, though I don't know why.

In the Fall, I really think that I want to go to Hawaii. I've been saving my miles up for years. First, I saved enough for a trip for one, then I saved up enough for a first-class trip. Next, because I used to be an actual optimist if you can believe that, I saved up enough for two people to take the trip.

See, the idea was that I'd have someone special to go with me.

Ha ha ha ha ha.

I kill me.

I guess I could go to Hawaii by myself, and that way I could also go to Jamaica or something. Or Europe.

My company has offices all over the world. I've hinted several times that I'd like a chance to be on a team that visits these offices someday. Maybe I should hint more strongly.

I could go to Australia and find out what happened to Jodie.

I could go to London and try to find EnglishGirl.

I could get the fuck away from my life here for a while. That's the most important part.

A few months ago, I asked myself this question:

Now that I know what I'm really capable of feeling, will I ever be willing to settle for anything less?

For I experienced the pinnacles of both sorrow and joy, often at the same moment. I know, I fucking know, that I'll never experience any emotion as strongly again. For if I do, then I'm done for.

I'm thinking right now that it's a good thing that the heart has no memory of its own.

What the heart experiences, it's up to the brain to remember. And that memory is not even close to perfect. So I remember everything that I went through, but only from a sort of third-person perspective.

I remember pain, but I can't relive it even if, during some episode of insanity perhaps, I decide that I want to relive it. I remember love, but I can't cue it up and replay it on those lonely nights when the only thing darker than the moonless and overcast sky is the center of my soul.

It's like looking though an old photo album. Those images may evoke emotion, but it's new emotion, diluted and deflated and diminished by the simple fact that it's not happening now.

To feel something and to have felt something. A simple shift in tense, that's all. But that's enough. That's enough to make a difference, and that difference is also enough. Enough to give me a glimmer of hope for the future. Enough to keep me from shutting down for good. Enough to keep me searching for someone special, and to prevent me from simply giving up.

Enough to give me an answer to my question.

So, was settle the wrong word to use? Was less too abrupt a dismissal for feelings that may not surface for years, if at all?

Perhaps, and perhaps.

But it's not the question that's important. Only the answer matters.

And the answer is yes.

I keep thinking up all these great ideas for something to write about.

I know they're great ideas, because I've had them before, and I've written them down in this journal before.

What I need is a new idea, but the only one I've had recently is still rattling around in my head. It's trying to get out, but I'm keeping it locked up for a while longer.

Meanwhile, I feel like I could make an entire entry that consisted of nothing but links to old entries.

That would probably be boring.

It would certainly be lazy.

Maybe I should take a writing class. Do I really need all these single-sentence paragraphs?

I doubt it.

Maybe I'll drink that last Alaskan Smoked Porter from my fridge. Maybe that'll jog something loose in my head.

Something new, I hope.

Man, what a fucking study in contrast Saturday was.

I didn't want to go anywhere, but I did. I went to Rich O's. I'm not really sure why, but if pressed, I'd have to say that it was because something deep inside me wanted HatGirl to see me in my new glasses and melt with desire.

I'm probably not supposed to say that, but it's okay, because it didn't happen anyway.

First things first, though. I had to get something to eat.

I was on my way to Burger King, and SassyGirl called me. She was thinking about maybe considering coming out. I told her that I was unfit for company, but that it would still be nice to see her if she thought that she could put up with my moodiness. I also promised to let her know if I left Rich O's early, so she wouldn't have to make the long drive, from her home on the dark side of the Moon, for naught.

When I got to Burger King, there were about 11,000 old people in line to order. To make a long story short, I didn't stay. I found myself wanting to say mean things to the old people. Things like, "Please either die or order something already."

Instead of being mean to the old people, I went to Wendy's instead. Yummy. While I was at Wendy's SassyGirl called me to tell me that her girlfriend had unexpectedly gotten off work, so she wouldn't be coming out after all.

When I got to Rich O's. I got to park in the main parking lot again. This is not as exciting when it happens on Saturday as it is on Friday, but it was still pretty cool.

So I went in, and I sat at the bar. In the same seat I'd occupied Friday night, in fact. There were some strangers in the living room area, and a bunch of PBDs in the red room, but that was it. And that was fine with me. I didn't want any company, and I was pretty sure that any company wouldn't want me.

I had myself a Dark Horse Tres Blueberry Stout (60), which was quite good. So good, in fact, that I originally envisioned drinking nothing else all night.

But anyway.

After I'd sat for a while, and enjoyed the solitude, HatGirl sent me a picture of her new dog, and told me that she wasn't coming out. I felt both relief and sadness. Relief because I wouldn't have to feign humanity, and sadness because, well, you know why.

My second beer was an NABC Old Lightning Rod (150). It was also yummy. Anyone that doesn't like it sucks, and anyone that doesn't wish they'd put it on their regular beer rotation also sucks.

I spent quite a bit of my time at the bar trying to let my imagination conjure up suitable company for me. It didn't work though. The image I kept coming up with kept dissolving before I could get any enjoyment out of it. This is progress, I think.

At one point, the strangers left the living room area, so I went and sat on the throne for a while. It was quite boring, and nobody joined me (maybe because I was glaring at everyone that even looked like they were even thinking about sitting down), and I ended up moving back to the bar after about an hour.

Maybe 8.4 seconds after I'd moved back to the bar, the night took a change for the better.

I looked back and ElPresidente and FirstLady were sitting in the living room area. I moved my shit over there, and bullshitted with them for quite a while.

After a while, MusicalHippyDude, GlassesGirl, and HotRedHeadGirl came over and sat with us.

HotRedHeadGirl actually grabbed my arm and made it a point to tell me that she liked my glasses. So she made about the fourth person who's even noticed the things since I got them. It was cool though.

The remainder of the night I spent in a much better mood.

I had one of these:

Aecht Schlenkerla Rauchbier Weizen (17)

(bottle) The first thing I noticed was the color. Very dark - almost like a porter. Not what I was expecting from a weizen. The entire beer, in fact, was not what I was expecting. Instead of toning down the smoke to keep a fair balance with the light-flavored wheat, they left the smoke intact. The result was a smoke beer, with no hint at all of its wheat heritage. This is not to say that I didn't like it, because I did. I just didn't like it as much as I expected to.

Also, I got to talk with SpikeBoy for a bit. He was out in the front area with his new girlfriend.

I saw EuchreGirl, but I couldn't get her attention to say hello.

I think that's about it. The entire night was enjoyable. The first half because I was able to have some privacy, and the second half because I was able to talk to some people that I don't get to talk to that much lately.

Maybe I'd have been better off in Indianapolis or St. Louis, but maybe not. It was an okay night.

This sucks.

I was supposed to go somewhere today. Another city perhaps. But all I did was shoot pool and watch TV and read and take a nap.

Now I've got to go to Rich O's and try to fool people into thinking that I'm worthy of human companionship.

If I was in Indianapolis, or St. Louis, and I got text messages asking if I was going to Rich O's, I could have responded, "I can't come tonight. I'm in Indianapolis, or St. Louis."

But nooooooooooooooooo!

I have to be a lazy fuck that doesn't even leave his house all day, forget about actually going somewhere interesting.

Tonight was a blessed relief, especially compared to the last few Fridays.

I arrived at Rich O's a little before 9:00 and, get this, I got a fucking parking spot in the fucking main lot!

This was a huge deal to me. I didn't have to park at Kroger. I didn't have to park at the employment services agency. I didn't even have to park at the catering place. I parked right in the Rich O's parking lot. For probably the first time on a Friday night, since the year 345,555 B.C.

I parked in the main lot, just like a regular person.

So I went in, and I did my usual hot girl inventory.

Nada.

Next, the asshole inventory.

That FuckingAssholeThatIHate was sitting on the sofa. Other than that, it seemed safe. It seemed good, in fact.

Finally, the friend inventory.

Nada to get excited about. MusicalHippyDude was sitting at the island, with his usual posse of PBDs, and WomanRepellant was sitting at the bar.

I sat at the bar, next to WomanRepellant. He was in a shitty mood, as usual. This time it was because he'd been beerless for like 10 minutes. He became convinced that all of the bartenders hated him, and he left after muttering, "Fuck this place. This place sucks."

He'll probably be back tomorrow. WomanRepellant has a very low threshold for thirst, but an even lower grudge-holding capacity.

I had, of course, looked at the beer board when I first went in. I hadn't seen anything interesting, so I ordered an NABC Old Lightning Rod. The bartender mentioned to me that the long-awaited blueberry stout was on tap. I hadn't seen it on the board, but I had definitely been waiting for it, so I had one:

Dark Horse Tres Blueberry Stout (20)

(draft) A stout, not just an ale, which was news to me. I didn't get much of an aroma from this, and the blueberry flavor was more subtle that I was expecting. The blueberries showed up mostly in the finish, which had absolutely no trace of bitterness. The undertones were mostly roasted malt, and the flavor slanted a tad more towards coffee than chocolate. A very good beer, worth the wait.

It was nice.

I had a second blueberry stout (40), and I began to wonder about the ABV in the thing. It seemed to be fairly strong, at least by the way it was affecting me.

I've since checked it out on the Internet and I see that it's a whopping 4.5% ABV. So I am a pussy, apparently, because I stopped after that second pint.

So I left Rich O's a little after 11:00, and I went over to this Mac's place that I don't like. MisunderstoodGirl supposedly hangs out there, but she wasn't there tonight, so I left without drinking anything.

Then I came home.

Tonight, though boring on the surface, was pretty much exactly what I needed. I'm pretty sure that I'm not fit for human company right now, so tonight was, as I said earlier, a blessed relief.

I'm pissed.

Pissed at myself. At my life. At everything.

I just yelled at this poor girl at work for no reason. She was just trying to set up a lunch for my group, and I felt the need to tell her how much I hate eating lunch, and how much I loathe doing just about anything in these stupid work clothes.

I did go over and apologize, but I obviously shouldn't have taken my frustrations out on her in the first place.

It's not her fault that my life sucks. It's mine.

I think I need to take a vacation to Antarctica or some other unpopulated place. That way nobody will have to deal with my crap until I've learned to deal with it myself.

The other night, Saturday to be exact, I was asked the question.

Do you love me?

This was not the first time she'd asked, but it was quite possibly the last.

I wonder, did a part of me know what was happening, how important it was?

Because Saturday, for the first time, I wanted to lie when I answered that question. I mean, I really really really wanted to lie. I wanted to say yes, and I wanted her to believe me, and I wanted her to say it back to me, and I wanted us to kiss, and I wanted us to live happily ever after.

What's a little lie if it can bring a lifetime of happiness?

Always before, I'd wanted to say yes. But I'd wanted it to be true before I said it. I'd always given her the truth, just as she'd always given it to me.

I could have done it though. She wanted me to say yes, and I don't think that she really cared anymore if it was the truth or not. She just wanted to hear me say the words. I think she'd have believed anything.

But that night, Saturday night, she sensed my hesitation, and she changed the subject. She asked me the other question.

Do you still love her?

And that question, that fucking question, I answered immediately.

---

Monday night, she didn't bother to ask me either question.

If she had asked, I think I'd have said anything to stop what was happening.

If she had asked, I think I'd have lied my ass off.

My nose has been whistling all fucking day long.

I've blown about a ton of crap out of it, and it still whistles.

Luckily, I'm the only one that can hear it. I think. EwokGirl has been giving me funny looks, but of course she always does that.

Stolen from mavis68:

THREE NAMES YOU GO BY:
1. Dave, by most people.
2. David, by work people and my ex-wife.
3. Mr. Siltz, by bill collectors.

THREE THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. Sometimes I'm funny, at least in my own head.
2. Usually I'm nice.
3. I'm fairly confident, at least at the start.

THREE THINGS YOU HATE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. My tastes in female beauty are too high.
2. I can't read women's minds.
3. I don't take hints very well.

THREE PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE:
1. German is the biggest part.
2. Irish is in there somewhere.
3. French? I'm don't know. Ask my sister Neisha.

THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:
1. Spiders.
2. Prison rape.
3. Never really getting completely over certain bullshit.

THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:
1. Caffeine.
2. Writing.
3. Playing with my cats.

THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:
1. A stupid tie.
2. Stupid dry-clean-only slacks.
3. My new glasses!

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE BANDS (or artists) AT THE MOMENT:
1. Kelly Clarkson!
2. Evanescence.
3. Blues Traveler.

THREE REASONS YOU'VE BROKEN UP WITH EXES:
1. She was a slut.
2. Total lack of communication.
3. Just drifted apart.

THREE THINGS YOU WOULD WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP:
1. Honesty.
2. Intellectual compatibility.
3. Sexual compatibility.

THREE THINGS ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX THAT APPEAL TO YOU:
1. Beautiful eyes.
2. A fit, but not muscular, body.
3. Dressing like a girl every now and then.

THREE THINGS YOU CAN'T DO:
1. Shut the fuck up.
2. Hide my feelings.
3. Tolerate rap music.

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE PASTIMES:
1. Reading.
2. Shooting Pool.
3. Drinking good beer and talking with my friends.

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REALLY BAD RIGHT NOW:
1. Go back to sleep.
2. Make a phone call.
3. Travel somewhere exciting.

THREE CAREERS YOU'RE CONSIDERING:
1. Retiree.
2. Playboy.
3. Puppyshark's fluffer.

THREE PLACES YOU WOULD GO ON VACATION:
1. Hawaii - maybe this Fall.
2. Europe would be cool.
3. I'm always up for a Las Vegas trip.

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE:
1. Become immortal.
2. Visit the states I haven't been to yet.
3. Fall in love again, but with a normal person.

Just an update on the event, envisioned here and confirmed here.

Oh yeah! First, SassyGirl and I were sitting at Rich O's before we went to dinner, and we were talking about how she wants me to try to have this sour Belgian beer that she likes added to the list. I said that I'd see what I could do. Then this guy that nobody saw before asked me, "Are you the Dave from DaveFest?"

I said I was. I thought it was pretty cool. I'm all famous and shit.

Anyway, Roger is now saying that DaveFest will probably be in late May or early June instead of early May, as it was originally envisioned.

I'll be sure to keep everyone updated so you all can come to DaveFest and meet me and buy a t-shirt and drink some good beer.

I guess UnfortunatelyNamedWorkGirl is involved in some hot project, so all day Monday all I heard was UnfortunatelyNamedWorkGirl this, UnfortunatelyNamedWorkGirl that.

When I called LensCrafters yesterday afternoon, the chick answered the phone with, "Thanks for calling LensCrafters, this is UnfortunatelyNamedLensCraftersGirl, how may I help you?"

These events did little to prepare me for last night, when HornDog decided to start poking around in areas that I thought had been settled a long time ago.

"So Dave," he asked. "You and LaptopGirl used to go out, right?"

*sigh*

So of course I told him that no, we'd never been a couple, but that everybody had always assumed that we were. This is old hat to me.

Then the guy had to be a dick.

"Well," he said, "She went out with everyone else, so I guess it's an understandable mistake."

What a fuckwad.

Then, to make matters worse, he proceeded to badmouth her some more, so her name became the most-uttered word at Rich O's for a while.

I bit my tongue. I wanted to leap to her defense, like I've done several times in the past, but I didn't. Not this time.

I'm not sure why. I think it's because I didn't want to hear her name any more. It's funny how I can go weeks without hearing that name, then all of a sudden I can't seem to hear anything else.

I don't know where to start this entry.

At the beginning seems like the logical place, but it just doesn't read correctly in my head.

Oh well, I'm going to start at the beginning anyway.

I took the day off work today. One hour of sleep just wasn't going to cut it. I had some comp time coming to me from having to work all day Sunday. I'd planned to use that to have my birthday off, but there was no way I could have gone into work today, so I used my comp time a month early.

Anyway, I didn't do fuck all day long, really. I slept until 11:30 or so, then dicked around on the computer and downstairs on the pool table.

At 2:30 or so, SassyGirl invited me to meet her at Rich O's after work.

Little did she know, I wasn't even at work. Muhaha.

Since I had laundry going, I agreed to meet her at 4:00.

Once there, I had myself a half an Upland Winter Warmer (120). Why just the half-glass? Because I'd decided that I'd go ahead and buy myself some new glasses. So I'd called in to LensCrafters ahead of time to make sure that they had everything in stock, and I figured I'd go there and pick up my glasses after Rich O's.

Since LensCrafters has glasses in about an hour, I had an hour to kill between the time I got my pupils measured and the time I'd be able to pick up my new glasses. To kill that time, I invited SassyGirl to go to Red Lobster with me (it's right across the street from the mall) and she agreed.

Let's see, during dinner SassyGirl's phone rang, and she saw that it was TrainGirl, so she handed me the phone so I could answer. TrainGirl didn't recognize my voice, not that I can fault her for that.

Also, with my dinner, I had a glass of Blue Moon (210). I'd remembered to asked for an unchilled glass, but I forgot about the fruit garnish so they put a fucking orange wedge in the thing. I guess I got it out before it completely ruined the beer, because it tasted okay.

After we left Red Lobster we went back to get my glasses. Here they are:

And here are the old ones:

After that we went back to Rich O's.

While there, I had myself an NABC Old Lightning Rod (110), and later a half-glass of Guinness (1040). DooRagGirl came in and sat at the kiddie table and talked to me for a while. She kindof noticed my new glasses, but only because I'd taken them off and was waving them in her face.

Tonight didn't feel at all like a Tuesday night, but it was. I do have to work tomorrow, so I came home early.

...can fuck off and die.

If there's a slut in this story, it's me.

I'm the one that was with her even though I loved someone else. I'm the one that took full advantage of her feelings but offered none in return. I'm the one that presented myself to her in October, though I still loved someone else.

It doesn't matter that I did none of those things out of malice. It doesn't matter that we were always completely honest with each other, or that we were at times great together. It doesn't matter that I really did try to give her what she wanted. All that matters is that I failed, and that I hurt her so many times that she stopped feeling safe with me.

One last night, to culminate a long string of last nights. Was that too much to ask for?

I don't think so. I could have resisted, but I didn't. We were good together, after all.

I don't think it was too much to ask for at all. I think it was beautiful.

But, of course, I'm the slut in this story.

I guess I'll just come right out and say it.

She's going back to her ex-boyfriend. The one I call AssholeDave. The one she used to call AssholeDave.

I am, of course, a little sad. That one thing that I've never been able to say to her - he says it so often that it's lost all meaning. If it ever had any.

This feels like about the millionth time we've broken up, even though there was really just the one time almost a year ago.

This time it doesn't really feel real, so this time it probably is.

Some of them you want to protect. Some of them you want to hug, and smell their hair. Some of them you want to watch in awed silence while they sleep beside you. Some of them you want to kiss, ever so softly, and some of them more passionately. Some of them you want to hold their hand. Some of them you want to get lost in their eyes. Some of them you want to fuck. Some of them you want to lick.

Some of them, you want to do all those things.

Those are the best ones.

Why is a dog different from a cat?

Sure, both are furry, and both make good pets, and both will shit on your floor from time to time, but they really are completely different creatures.

So why is this time different from the last time?

Same reason. It's a completely different creature.

This time it's a crush. It's as simple as that.

(girl*smolder)+(guy*lonely+straight)=crush.

The last time, the last time it was something else. Something terrifying, something fascinating, something dangerous.

((girl+sparkles)^unknown)+((guy*clueless)^unknown)=unknown^2

Whatever it was, it most certainly was not a crush. And fuck anyone who tries to dismiss it as such. I was there. I lived through the fucking thing. I died through the fucking thing.

Lately, people talk to me, or they read what little I allow myself to post, and some of them start to think to themselves, Oh shit. Dave's going off his rocker again. Then they either try to talk some sense into me, or they sit back to enjoy the show that they're sure is about to start.

Either way, they're wasting their time. Because this is different. This is normal. This is nothing. Yet.

Fuck. I didn't mean to write the yet part.

Please disregard it.

Thanks.

I've got an idea for an entry.

Actually, I've got another idea.

The first idea was just wrong. It would have been too much. For you to read. For me to post. It was something I wrote in another journal. I'd thought about posting it here, but I changed my mind at the last minute.

That entry doesn't belong here. Even though I've recently stolen a couple of entries from that other journal and posted them here, publicly - this one I just couldn't do. That entry was not written for you, my readers. That entry was written for her.

Besides, I've picked at the bones of that journal enough. I need to let it rest in peace. Just because I murdered the person who wrote in that journal doesn't mean that I shouldn't still show some respect for the dead.

But anyway.

That sudden restraint left me with nothing for this journal. There I was, listed on the JS front page as a reader's pick, and my mind was blank. Blanker than usual, I should say.

Now though, now I've got an idea, for an interesting entry. Maybe even a good one. Wouldn't that be something?

So jodiechalese, a hot Australian girl who much to the dismay of men all over journalspace has apparently vanished, left me a very nice parting gift. She nominated me for the JS reader's pick thingy.

And there I am! Yay for me!

Once the initial shock and gratitude begins to wear off, however, I know that I'll be faced with a problem. A problem that will become painfully obvious to anyone venturing over to my journal because of this publicity.

I'm not very good.

At least not lately.

I'm sitting here, exposed like a fly on a plate, and I've got nothing. No drama. No pain. Not even any joy.

It's just me and my poemish things and my amateurish comics and my mundane entries about my mundane life.

It used to be better than this. I used to be better than this.

So there is some decent stuff in this journal. It's just a lot more difficult to find than it used to be.

Good luck.

This was expected.
I have been waiting for it,
Anticipating.
This is what I have yearned for.
Just a little distraction.

This morning I faced an eight hour work day, and I dreaded it.

Right now, I face a long entry, and I dread it just as much.

Not because it's anything bad, but just because it's a little bit boring to everyone but me.

So I don't think I'll write a long entry or two about last night. I'll just hit the highlights.

After I left Lenscrafters, I went over to the Bluegrass brewpub and had some dinner. With my burger and fries I had a BBC Dark Star Porter (174) and a BBC Alt (220). Both were quite yummy.

I text-messaged SassyGirl to see if she was working or not.

At about the time I left the brewpub, MixedSignalGirl called me.

I didn't call her, she called me.

I just want to make that clear to those readers that have been giving me shit for leading the poor girl on.

Anyway, she was just wanting some company and she wanted it to be me. As it turned out, she's been having a problem with her ex-boyfriend (also named Dave) and she figured that my truck parked in her driveway would do some good.

We talked for a while and ended up going to Red Lobster where I managed to eat some cheesesticks despite already being full from eating at the brewpub.

That was it. We talked about nothing much, and we ate. It was nice though. There was no massive drama bubbling away beneath the surface of either of us.

After I left her house, at around 9:30. I went to send her a text-message thanking her for the company, and I saw that I'd missed about 46 phone calls from SassyGirl. I'd had my stupid phone turned to "completely silent" instead of "vibrate" as I usually do.

Duh.

SassyGirl was at Rich O's, and I went there. While I was on my way, HatGirl text-messaged me asking me where I was. I hadn't expected HatGirl to be there last night, so that was a nice surprise.

The place wasn't too crowded at all, but that was at least partly because I arrived at around 10:00.

To drink, I had a couple glasses of Piraat (155) and a glass of Gulden Draak (140). All were quite yummy.

I think that's all I want to say now.

Told you it was boring.

Your heat warms the room.
And yet you're not self-conscious.
You smile, the world stops
To contemplate your beauty.
I don't know how you stand it.

I mentioned to DooRagGirl Friday night that I was going to buy new glasses. She asked me if I was going to buy evil glasses. I don't know what that means. I picture either a monocle or one of those glasses-on-a-stick thingies. I think I'll stay with regular non-evil glasses. Just some that are a little more fashionable than the ones I've had for five years. Maybe some thin rectangular ones.

---

So Saturday afternoon, determined to (a) get off my ass, and (b) leave my house, and (c) actually do something, I went over to Lenscrafters to get some new glasses.

I went in, and looked around at some frames that kinda looked like what I was looking for. A saleslady approached me, and after a bit she told me that I couldn't buy glasses because my prescription was too old. I told her that my vision hadn't changed since the last time I'd bought glasses, but she said that I was in no place to make that determination - her computer said that my prescription had expired.

*sigh*

So I went over to the doctor's counter and filled out the sheet with all of my personal information, then waited for about a half-hour, then got my vision checked. Guess what?

My fucking prescription hasn't changed.

Armed with this new information, I went back to the same saleslady as before. I picked out a frame that I liked - not really rectangular, but moreso than my current pair, and definitely thinner.

This is when the bitch decided to tell me that they were so backed up that anything I ordered today wouldn't be available for pickup until Sunday.

*sigh*

So I told her to suck my dick*, and I left and went to another Lenscrafters, over in Louisville this time.

After about 15 minutes of standing in that store, and being completely ignored, I overheard some people talking. It turns out that you can't get a salesperson to even look at you, let alone help you at this particular store, unless you sign in first.

So I fucking signed in.

About 8 million years later, a salesguy called out my name.

I took him back to the display that had a couple of frames that I liked. I told him that I was hoping that his vast experience would be able to help me choose between them. One frame was more rectangular, and one was more oval. Both were a lot thinner than the glasses I currently wear.

The guy reaches deep inside himself, and calls upon his years of experience and deep knowledge of what frames look good on which people, and said, "Your face is oval, you could go with either frame."

Gee, thanks. Asshole.

Now, this is the part where I started to get pissed. Well, maybe not, but the groundwork for getting pissed was definitely laid at this point.

I picked the more rectangular frames. The guy said that, "With these frames, you have several options."

I swear he used the words "with these frames."

So he started rattling off options about featherweight lenses and scratch-resistance and anti-glare coatings. Eventually he said that I could get the featherweight scratch-resistant anti-glare for $280 with those frames.

I swear that's what he said.

with those frames.

After about another hour, which the salesguy spent typing my information into his computer, he suggested that he should go check and see if the frames that I wanted were in stock.

No shit, Sherlock.

I agreed that he should check, otherwise he was wasting my time.

So the guy comes back and they do have those frames in stock. He starts keying in numbers and eventually announces the total.

Eight zillion dollars.

It turned out that, despite what the fucker had said to me several times, that the cost of the frames was completely separate from the cost of the lenses. So my $149 frames, plus his lenses, added up to eight zillion dollars.

Or it might as well have.

I was not prepared to spend that much. Not so much because of the price, but because of the principle of the thing. It's a pair of glasses, not a new heart or set of lungs.

I told the guy that he'd mislead me, and that eight zillion dollars for some lenses was ridiculous, and that I'd rather stick with my boring old 1990-vintage glasses.

Then I left.

* - I didn't really tell her that, but I thought it.

I took a nap after work yesterday. My sleep schedule has been so messed up all week, I halfway expected to sleep all night long, and that would have been fine with me.

While I was napping I dreamed that my sister Dina had called from Rich O's.

When I woke up I had a voicemail from my sister Dina. She'd called from Rich O's.

Weird. There was more weirdness but I don't feel like writing about it.

So I went down there at about 8:30. It was of course extremely crowded. I stood at the end of the bar and talked to Dina and Kenny and MusicalHippyDude. I had myself an NABC Old Lightning Rod (60).

Dina and Kenny are getting married on May 13th, which is the same day as the brewerania sale that Rich O's has every year. Hopefully it's not also when DaveFest will be going on. Actually I think it'll be okay - the wedding will be in the afternoon.

After Dina and Kenny left I took the seat at the bar that Dina had vacated. Then DooRagGirl came in and right after that some shitheads left the sofa so we went over there.

I spent the bulk of the night talking with DooRagGirl and listening to one of the PBDs rattle on and on and on about things that he knows nothing about. Typical for him - it's the same guy that thinks opossums aren't mammals.

I had another Old Lightning Rod (80).

At one point the conversation took a slightly personal turn, and I found myself hoping that I'd shut up. I didn't have to shut up, as it turned out, because FutureDude got off work so DooRagGirl went over and sat with him and some of the PBDs.

I ordered another Old Lightning Rod, but I only drank half of it (90).

Oh yeah. I talked to EuchreGirl for a short while. I don't think she recognized me as EvilDave.

(response to message)

Will it stop when I reach 100 char. or should I have been counting??

You can always just send me an email. It's daveATbarenadaDOTcom but replace the obvious stuff. There's a link to the right with the same munged address.

(response to message)

No, it wasn't about you. The person it was about does not read my 'blog.

I wonder if she knows that I was just being polite.

I wonder if she realizes that she and I are a complete waste of time, and that we've already wasted enough time. Circling each other for over a year and a half, looking for openings, and finding none, and presenting none ourselves.

I don't know what she's looking for. I don't even know what I'm looking for. But I'm pretty sure that we won't find anything in each other. If there was anything there, we'd have found it by now.

I wonder if she knows that I was just being polite.

I wonder if I'd know if she was just being polite.

I've had lulls before. I don't know why this one is bothering me so much. I don't know why it's killing me that I can't hold a thought in my head long enough to even recognize it, let alone translate it into words.

I hate this. It's what I wanted, it's what I needed, it's what had to be done if I was going to survive, but I hate it. The fact that I had to kill a part of myself to get to this point, that makes me hate it even more.

This entry I've stolen from that other journal, where that part of me which I've murdered used to vent and ramble. This entry was dated September 13th, 2005. The beginning of the end. I liked this entry. I can almost remember what I felt when I wrote it.

Almost.

I had a pretty decent night tonight. One of those sweet sorrow nights that are only enjoyable in contrast. It won't last though. It never lasts.

While I'm sitting here typing this semi-random crap, my cellphone is sitting beside me, on this pullout extension doohickey. Every time a car passes outside a few stray photons from the headlights strike the phone and bounce up into my peripheral vision.

There went another car.

I should move the cursed phone. Or adjust the blinds. Or something. But I haven't done it yet, and I doubt that I will. Every time the light hits my eyes I get a brief spark of hope, quickly followed by a little pang of disappointment. It's like a two-second replay of the past year. Over and over. And over.

The phone's not flashing to indicate an incoming call. You're not calling.

See, this would be the perfect time. I'm not too sad. I'm not doing my anger experiment anymore. I just miss you. I think I could actually have a conversation. Get all this out in the open. Get some fucking closure maybe.

There went another car.

You're not going to call though. I asked you not to. Told you that you were hurting me. That wasn't quite right though. I've been hurting myself. You've just been the weapon of choice. I've been the one wielding it.

Man I'm in a strange mood.

There went another car.

Eventually, I'll have to leave it behind.

But not until I'm sure that it's really dead.

The difference between me and this entry is that, if you could figure out how to highlight me, there'd still be nothing there.

I am completely empty right now. I am a void.

I'm sure that everybody already knows this (kidding) but yesterday would have been Benjamin Franklin's 300th birthday.

To celebrate the occasion, because brewers and beer drinkers are always looking for any reason to celebrate, several breweries around the country unveiled a beer in the style that Ben himself might have brewed. There's more information here at Roger's 'blog.

When I went to Rich O's after work, the place was packed. Everybody wanted to try the new (old?) beer.

So did I.

So I did.

New Albanian Old Lightning Rod (10)

(draft) Dark and sweet. There was a slight bitterness to the finish that made me want to take another sip right away. The description says molasses, but I didn't get any of that. I got more of a fruity flavor that might have been plums or cherries. A very pleasant surprise was that it's not that strong (7% ABV). A very good beer that I will probably drink until it's gone.

Last night saw a bit of an historic happening for SassyGirl and I. When I'd first arrived at Rich O's, there was a hot girl there.

She ended up sitting out front and waiting for this Bill asshole.

When SassyGirl arrived, I asked her if the hot girl was still sitting out front. She said, "Yes, and she really is hot."

That, dear readers, was the first time in the two years that I've known SassyGirl when she's actually agreed with me about a girl's hotness. She usually doesn't like anyone that I find attractive.

I've always found this odd. Knowing me, and my own impossibly high standards, it always seemed to me that it should be the other way around. I mean, I should be the one dismissing her picks. But I don't. Usually if she thinks a girl is pretty then so do I.

Weird.

Not very interesting, perhaps, but weird.

I wonder what will happen, the next time I see her, look into her eyes.

I knew the answer to that question once, but I was wrong. A few months later, I knew the answer once again, but I was wrong again.

And now? Now I don't know what will happen.

Will I become lost again? Will I become terrified again? Will I die again?

What if I look into her eyes, and nothing happens?

I think that if nothing happens, then I will be sad.

It would be like waking up from a beautiful dream, and knowing that I may never see anything as beautiful as that dream again. It would be like waking up from a nightmare, and knowing that I may never again feel anything as strongly as I felt that fear.

It would be like waking up from death, and realizing that waking up was the easy past, and that I must now find something to live for. Something else.

Yes, I think that if nothing happens, then I will be sad.

Today, after work, I went and bought myself a new doorknob, then I went to meet SassyGirl at Rich O's.

Lately I only get to see SassyGirl once a week, on Mondays. I'd already decided that I wasn't going to be at the bar this evening for their Gay Night experiment, but stopping by immediately after work was certainly doable.

So we talked for a while about her new girlfriend and I had myself a Robert the Bruce (160).

Tonight I watched 24. I love this show. While I watched I had one of the beers that's been sitting in my fridge since before Christmas:

Winterkoninkske Winter King (11)

(bottle) Wow. I wasn't expecting a beer this special. The label says "Belgian Ale Brewed with Juniper Berries." There's not a whole lot that I can add to that description, but I owe it more. Flat-out yummy. I want more.

It's a conundrum, all right.

I don't really have much to post right now, but I don't want that last whiny entry to be the first thing people see, so I'll write about my wonderful morning.

On the way out of my driveway, I saw that the dog's body was still there. I suppose it'll stay there until tomorrow as whatever county agency is responsible for such things probably has the day off for the holiday.

I got about halfway to work - not quite to the river - and realized that I'd left my laptop at home. Shit! So I called and left a voicemail telling my boss that I'd be a little late, then I turned around and headed back up the hill.

You know that feeling you get when you think there's an extra step at the top of the stairs? Your foot just keeps going down, and you freak out for just an instant?

I went back into my house, petted the cats for a couple of seconds, grabbed my laptop case, closed the door leading to my garage, and

Shit!

I'd locked my keys inside my house. So I called and left another voicemail, this time telling my boss that I was going to be even later.

I've been locked out of my house before. One day last Summer I came home from Las Vegas and couldn't get into my house because my sister had locked that same door. At the time there was no key for that door, so I never ever locked it, but Dina didn't know that. On that day, I took a drill and drilled out the lock to gain entry. Then, of course, I went and bought a new doorknob set.

This morning, I once again went for the drill, but there was no chuck key and the bit wasn't set tightly enough. It kept getting stuck. I was getting a little pissed, and I looked around and saw the perfect tool for when I'm pissed.

A 15-pound sledge hammer.

It only took a few whacks to break the doorknob off. After that it was easy to get into the house. My cats may never recover though.

So today I get to go and buy another doorknob set from the hardware store.

This time I'm getting a half-dozen extra keys made.

Tonight, in honor of the return of the show 24 to my TV, I had myself an Alaskan Smoked Porter (330) while I watched the season premiere.

This show and this beer don't really have anything in common, except that they're each one of my favorite things in the world.

I can't believe that David Palmer and Michelle are dead.

I wish, I'd like to be, at least a zillionth as cool as Kiefer Sutherland. Then maybe I wouldn't have to resort to evilness to lure in the ladies.

But anyway.

The other night I wrote this as part of a night of drunken rambling:

I'm at such a fucking pivotal point right now. In my life, in my work, in my journal. In everything. I sometimes think I could toss it all away and start fresh, but then I remember that it'd still be the same old me, so why bother?

And it's not just external. This 40-year-old shell of a man that I inhabit, I know that there's more I could do with it than eat, sleep, work, drink, occasionally fuck, and write random journal entries.

But what would I do?

But where would I go?

I've asked myself those two questions so many times that it's become almost reflexive to me.

Sometimes, every now and then, I even manage to come up with an answer. Not a particularly good answer, but an answer nonetheless.

Anything but this.

Anywhere but here.

Tonight - I say tonight but this really goes much deeper than that - tonight I realized that I've been asking myself the wrong questions.

It's not "Where?" and it's not "What?" that I should be asking myself.

It's "Who?"

You see, I've become very much afraid that I'm not going to be truly happy as long as I'm alone. And, and this is the kicker, I'm very much afraid that I'm going to be alone for a very very very long time. Maybe even forever.

I never thought that this bothered me before. I thought that I was happy before. I was my own man, living my own life and making my own decisions. But lately, lately that little nagging voice inside me has been getting louder and louder. I can't help but hear it now. It's only a matter of time before I start listening to it.

But Dave, what good is a life if there's nobody to share it with?

Maybe it's always been this way. Maybe I mistook contentedness for happiness for so long that they became interchangeable in my mind. Everything was fine with me. Not great, but still good.

And then I met her and everything went to shit. Like a magician's mirrors, all of my illusions shattered. I was forced to look at the cold hard truth of what I was.

Not just alone, but lonely.

I sit here tonight, January 15th, 2006, and I look into the future. I don't particularly like what I see.

Actually, I fucking hate what I see.

Bridges burn all around me, and I either don't notice or I don't care or I don't understand what's happening until it's too late.

Great, now I'm in a bad mood.

Just fucking great.

I've mentioned before that my neighbor across the street has a dumb dog named Dino.

Another neighbor has a younger, more annoying Black Lab named Molson.

I don't have any dogs myself. These two, plus a three-legged dog named Ice (Get it, Molson Ice) are the next best thing. I can't set foot outside my house without one or more of them running up to play fetch or something. Plus, Molson always brings me free dog shit.

So tonight, about twenty minutes ago, my doorbell rang.

I can see out my door from the couch where I was sitting. I looked out and saw a young brunette wearing glasses.

After I finished having my heart attack, I took a closer look.

Not her. Just some other brunette wearing glasses. An imposter.

Probably a Jehovah's Witness or something, I figure, so I grudgingly get up.

It's more of a girl than a woman, really. She's crying. She asked me if I had a dog.

I told her that I didn't, but that I knew most of the dogs in the area.

She told me that she'd just ran over a Black Lab.

Mother fucking shit!

As I walked with the girl over to the other side of the road, she tried to describe the dog, but all Black Labs look alike. Especially at night when you don't know them.

I asked her if the dog was dead, and she said she thought it was, because it had stopped screaming.

Her boyfriend had taken off to canvas some other houses.

I went to see the dog. To see which of my friends it was. To see if my friend was dead.

My first thought, upon getting close to the dog, was that I didn't know it. None of the Black Labs I know have white paws. I will admit to breathing a sigh of relief at that point.

I checked its neck for any sign of a pulse, and I put my hand on its chest and felt for a heartbeat. There was nothing. It was dead.

This dog obviously belonged to somebody - it was very well-fed. But it didn't have a collar. A neighbor lady that was driving by said that she'd never seen the dog before either.

So it's a mystery I guess. One that probably won't be solved until somebody puts up a flyer at Gas N Stuff about their missing dog. Then somebody will have to call the number that's written on it and break the news.

Breaking that news will suck, but not as much as it will suck for the person on the other end of the phone.

And so began my Saturday night.

The rest of the night comes to you courtesy of my little notebook.

8:04
Rich O's is fucking crowded again. There's nobody here worth talking to. I'm outta here.

8:25
Buckhead's is out of Upland Chocolate Stout. It feels weird here without MixedSignalGirl. I'm outta here.

9:00
The Pub has Young's Double Chocolate Stout. Yay! I get one (275)! Yummy!

9:14
Fuck.

9:20
In here I'm the stranger. I wonder if the regulars hate me. I wonder if there are any regulars here.

9:22
This place is strange. Maybe I'll just have two.

9:30
This one chick is smoking a clove cigarette. It smells good.

9:31
The waitresses here are fucking hot.

9:39

9:44
Fuck.

9:45
I order another Young's.

9:51
I get my beer (295). Finally.

9:55
Fuckity fucking fuck fuck.

9:57
I will not claim that the grapes were sour. The grapes were sweet and delicious.

10:00
Piss time.

10:07
Oh boy! The marines have landed.

10:11
I should have worn my Red Sox cap. Then I could have pretended that I was a tourist.

10:12
In a few minutes, I'll have a decision to make.

10:15

10:19
Decision made. I'm outta here.

10:41
I arrive at Rich O's and take a piss.

10:42
I say hi to BamaCouple.

10:43
It's still fucking crowded in here!

10:45
I order a Piraat (135) and I sit in the red room.

10:48
There's a dipshit at the bar that I don't like, but I can't remember the reason. He's got a hot girl with him - maybe that's why.

10:51
Hey! That Russian chick with the cool hair is sitting at the other table. She talking to some dipshit.

10:53
RussianChick is drunk.

10:54
This one chick - the wife of one of the PBDs - is about a gazillionth as pretty as she thinks she is.

10:56
Fuck! I need to snap out of this mood I'm in.

10:58
Nice tits and a decent ass do not make up for having the face of a horse. Not with the lights on, anyway.

11:01
Girls with foreign accents are hot.

11:06
I'm moving to the bar. I don't know why.

11:15
My beer is gone. I'm outta here.

I've thought about this all day, and there's just no way I can make last night seem even remotely interesting.

So I'm going to stick with boring. It's what I do best after all.

The place was fucking crowded. I wanted to leave. I had myself a half a Guinness (1030) and planned to go someplace else, anyplace else where I could actually sit down and actually hear myself think. I was, in fact, on my way back to my truck to head over to Buckhead's but HatGirl text-messaged me and said that she was her way.

So I turned around and went back inside, to where the strangers and idiots had once again taken over.

I don't think I like this new Rich O's very much. This new Rich O's where all of the assholes that used to stay out front, out of my way, are now suddenly compelled by the new smoking policy to come into Rich O's proper.

It's just so fucking crowded.

One of the PBDs remarked that the crowd was certainly good for the owners, and I have to agree that this is true. For now. But what happens when all of the regulars get so sick and tired of standing around all night waiting for a place to sit that they stop bothering to come in at all? What happens when they decide that it's not even worth checking to see what the crowd is like? What happens when they just go somewhere else?

I don't know the answers, and I don't have any solutions. I am pretty sure, however, that doubling the size of the place, but reserving that new space for port tastings and other "special" functions, when it's asses to elbows every single fucking Friday night - well that just doesn't seem like the most brilliant thing I've ever heard of.

But it's none of my business. I'm just an innocent bystander, a victim.

But anyway, the whole night sucked. We did eventually get to move over to the living room area, but my mood was already shot. I sat on the throne and listened to everyone else yammer on and on about various topics. HatGirl and I traded some text messages back and forth because it just seemed easier even though she was sitting three feet away from me.

I had myself a Smithwick's (676). I was still drinking the lightweight stuff. I guess a part of me was still hoping that I'd get up the nerve to just leave and go somewhere else, and I wanted to keep my alcohol intake low enough to keep that possibility open.

I pussed out, and I lost all ambition to try to salvage a Friday night. I had most of a bottle of Stone Smoked Porter (154), and LuckyFucker had the rest. I was going to order a Weihenstephaner, but surprise! they were out. That's probably my fault. They're also out of Baltika 6. That's probably my fault too.

So I ordered a Fischer's Amber Ale, and only drank a little bit of it, then I went home.

What a waste of a night.

I am irritated by your lie.

You lie to yourself. You lie to him. You lie to me.

The truth sits somewhere between the depths of your lie and the pinnacle of your desire.

I am irritated by your lie.

But you, you should be livid.

You apologized for touching me, but it was unnecessary.

I felt the heat from your body, but it did not warm me.

These are good things, I think.

Timing is everything.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote that I'd never be in any of Ella's polls.

Now I've not only been in one, I came in third. Not too bad at all.

I'm still going to go out and drown my sorrows tonight, though.

Thanks to everyone who voted for me, whether because of pity, or extortion, or guilt, or whatever.

Right now, I don't know what to say to you.

Right now, I don't know how I feel about you.

Right now, I need you more than I ever have before.

How can I survive without loving you?

How can I remember to breathe, when for so long I only bothered to breathe because of you? Because someday you might come back into my life, and I lived for that chance?

You kept me alive, because you were my life.

And now, now I don't know what the fuck is going on. How can my thoughts of you be so easily pushed aside? What cruel twist of fate has dropped this, this harlot into my life to divert my attention and muddle my thoughts?

I know that I love you. I know that she is nothing compared to you. I know these things like I know that the sky is blue and the ocean is wet.

But she is here, and you are not.

But she is here, and you are not.

But she is here, and you are not.

Right now, I need you more than I ever have before, but you are not here.

You are not here, and I know that I should miss you.

But I don't. Not right now.

Take that chance. I'm worth it, and I've gone through a lot to be ready for it.

The other night, I drank a bottle of yummy Alaskan Smoked Porter and wrote a bunch of snippets of boring crap. One of those snippets was this:

I think about a couple of my friends who've recently started reading my 'blog. I try to keep things light for them - but not too light. I want to come off as neither a lunatic nor as a child. This is easier said than done. Especially when I'm both. I want to come off as insightful at times, and as brilliant at others. This is easier said than done. Especially when I'm neither.

We'll see if I can write anything coherent without alcohol in my bloodstream. I have my doubts.

The problem is, I don't seem to be able to write anything that's either interesting or well-written unless that writing comes from my heart. My emotions are the source of everything I've ever written that I considered readable.

Because of this, I tend to stick with those same emotional topics and rehash them to death. Beat that dead horse into bloody pulp.

So someone new to my 'blog comes along, reads some of my drivel, and makes conclusions based on it.

Conclusions that are often less than accurate. Or at least not timely.

SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: This is the third time I've restarted this entry. I know what I want to write, but I'm having a hard time deciding how to write it.

But what are people supposed to think about me, when they read my 'blog?

Read something from the Fall of 2003, and you'll be so bored that you'll never read anything by me again. You'll probably volunteer for a lobotomy to prevent accidentally reading something I've written.

Read some of the later stuff, and you'll feel a little sorry for me. You'll think my writing is insane, and obsessive, and overly dramatic, but some of what I write is at least interesting and/or well-written and/or entertaining.

But what are you supposed to think about me?

I read back through my old entries, and there is of course one theme that keeps popping up. That fucking dead horse. I write about it because it's what I know, and it's what I feel, and it's - I guess comfortable would be a good word.

But it's not me. Not anymore. Not, at least, to anywhere near the extent that it used to be. That's what I want people to think about me when they read my 'blog:

I'm okay. Or I will be.

I get better all the time. Every day I wake up with a little less pain, and every night I go to sleep with a little less feeling that the day was wasted because she didn't share it with me.

I think I'm what you might call emotionally bruised.

But that bruise is fading.

So what should people think about me, when they read my 'blog?

I'd like people to think that I'm a person, an human being, just as capable of pain, or passion, or selfishness, or friendship, or stupidity, as anyone else. I'd like people to not be afraid of me, or of hurting my feelings. I'd like people to know that they don't need to tiptoe around me. That I'm stronger than I seem.

I'd like people to understand that there are some things about me that they may never understand, because I don't even understand them myself.

But that's okay, and so am I.

So, as far as Ella's contest goes, instead of resorting to negative campaigning, like some people, I think I'll take the high road and just say why you should vote for me.

1. I take the high road.


2. I'm evil now, or at least I'm working on it.


3. I'm apparently irresistible, at least in Las Vegas.


4. I can spell irresistible in only two tries.


5. I can be friends with anyone, even a rock.


6. I've never murdered anyone, even if they deserved it.


7. Even though I'm The Supreme Idiot Of The Entire Fucking Universe, I don't let it go to my head. I'm all humble and shit.

...when you could be voting for me?!?

UPDATE: This suspense is killing me! Wake me when it's over, but only if I win. If I lose, then just throw dirt over me.

One of the, um, benefits that I got when I started bottling shit up back in the Summer was that I was suddenly able to remember things that I'd either forgotten or, more often, failed to even notice before.

I've been able, by piecing these newfound memories, together with new information passed onto me from others, to confirm, once and for all, that I am an idiot.

Man, there were a lot of commas in that sentence. Way too many, if you ask me.

But I digress. Back to the me being an idiot stuff. I know this comes as no big shock to any of you, and it didn't really come as that big of a shock to me, but being pretty sure of something is very different than being fucking positive.

Hey, here's an example!

I remember this one night. I even wrote about it. I've already kicked myself numerous times for the way I handled that particular night. Or didn't handle it. Whatever.

So it's already not my favorite night to think about, but it got quite a bit less so last night, when one of those damned doorways in my head creaked open to reveal...

The conversation.

I'm not going to get into exactly what was said and who said it and how hopeful one person was and how retarded another person was. I'm just going to say that, and I know that I'm repeating myself here, I'm just going to say that I'm an idiot.

In fact, I am such an idiot, I hereby claim my rightful throne as The Supreme Idiot Of The Entire Fucking Universe and I defy anyone to challenge me in this, my kingdom of retardation.

---

This shit has been happening to me a lot in the last few months. As I've become able to think about certain things at all, I've become able to remember all sorts of fun little tidbits like this.

Every now and then, after remembering something particularly annoying or intriguing, I tell myself, Self, you fucking dumbass, you need to pick up the phone, or get on a plane, or something. You can't just keep ignoring this shit. That's what got you into this mess in the first place.

But then I tell myself, But Self! Everything I'm remembering happened a year and a half ago! No matter what was going on or might have been going on back then, it's just too late now.

And then I say to myself, You really are a pathetic waste of space, Self.

And then I say, I know you are, but what am I?

And it all sort of degenerates from there, and I end up doing nothing but writing about what an idiot I am.

I think, in the end, I was just expecting too much from the tournament.

Last year, I was in the middle of all this drama. I was still reeling from LaptopGirl leaving. I was in a bit of an emotional blender with MixedSignalGirl. I had all this shit going on with my life, but for a week, while I was at the tournament, I was happy.

All of my problems were reduced to making a shot, and getting position to make the next shot. I got to be a pool player for a while instead of some fucked up guy. I was in charge.

This year, I guess I was hoping for the same type of catharsis. A chance to step back from everything else that's going on and just be me again.

Didn't happen. And a part of me knew that it wouldn't happen before I even got there on Friday. That's why I hadn't felt like I'd been looking forward to the tournament as much as I had in the past. That's why I hadn't been practicing nearly as much as I should have.

I was, deep down, actually dreading the thing. Because I knew that it wasn't going to be enough, not this year.

Last year, pool was enough to distract me from my problems, but this year there was a different challenge. Pulling me out of this funk, this fucking drifting state that I've been in for months - this turned out to be too much to hope for. Even for this, the one thing that I've always looked forward to more than any other for the past several years.

A part of me knew all this going in, but it wasn't until Friday at around noon that the rest of me knew.

I was there, and I was miserable, and I had nothing but more misery ahead of me for the next three or four days. I was not going to be cured, or distracted. Not this time. And then the realization of that caused me to become even more miserable.

I'm glad that I lost my first match. I'm glad that I didn't exercise my buy-back option.

I said in my pool 'blog:

...people are going to believe whatever they want, but this is the truth.

Losing that match was not the problem, it was only a symptom. Losing that match did not cause me to leave and come home, it allowed me to do so.

As I've mentioned before, some of my friends are trying to turn Mondays into Gay Night at Rich O's, and I've been named an Honorary Gay for these occasions.

That's honorary only, so you girls just go ahead and breathe those sighs of relief.

Monday was my last day of vacation. I normally don't like to go out when I have to work the next day, but I figured that since I was technically still on vacation, what the fuck.

It was a pretty quiet night. I think that Gay Night might be a bust - most of them have been quite sparsely attended. I drank three bottles of yummy Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier (413) and talked with SassyGirl, SassyBoy, TacoBell, and LibraryGirl.

I guess SassyGirl's brother is getting married in February. I may go to that, even though I don't know the guy. It would give me something to do, plus it'd be nice to meet some of SassyGirl's relatives. The wedding will be in Eastern Kentucky, right next to West Virginia, so it'll probably be full of redneck clichés and stuff.

Let's see, what else?

SassyGirl took this lovely picture of me.

SassyBoy saw a guy out in front of Rich O's that he said looked like me, but I didn't see any resemblance at all, except that we were both wearing glasses. I guess all straight men look alike to SassyBoy.

This one bull dyke came in, but it was just a coincidence- she didn't know about Gay Night. Her girlfriend was a very hot brunette though. I thought about asking her to put on my glasses, but I was afraid that the bull dyke would beat the shit out of me.

On a completely unrelated note, I've deleted VigilanteGirl's information from my cell phone's memory.

On another unrelated note, HatGirl was a no-show (she's another Honorary Gay) so that sucked.

I'd like to have a vagina for just one day. Okay, two days. I'd spend the first day masturbating, and the second day I'd try to gain some insight into the female species.

A year ago, I sat in this little bar at The Executive West hotel in Louisville. I talked for a while with a friend from the Internet, and I drank some BBC Dark Star Porter. After my friend left, I stayed for a while. I looked at the empty chair across from me, and I imagined that she was there with me, smiling at me, laughing with me.

Tonight, I sat in that same bar. At the same table in fact. I drank the same BBC Dark Star Porter (154). It was a different friend that sat with me this time. More of an acquaintance really. Just one of the local players. Most people think he's a jerk, but I think he's an okay guy.

After he had left, I stayed for a while, and I looked at the empty chair across from me.

She wasn't there of course. No more than she'd really been there last year at this time. No more than she's really been in my life at all since she moved away.

She wasn't there, but that didn't stop me from seeing her.

Just as an experiment, I loosened my grip just a little bit, and I allowed the slightest trickle of that which I'd so successfully stopped back in the Summer. Just to see what would happen.

It was good. It was a happy delusion.

An awful lot has changed in the past year, but some things remain the same.

I have this nearly overpowering urge to do something to break this silence, to see what's going on. But I won't.

I don't know what I'd say anyway.

So I guess I'll go to the tournament and watch for a while.

...is that I'm a little bit too honest sometimes.

For this, you can blame MixedSignalGirl, for showing me the value and freedom of open and honest communication. If you want, you can also blame the fact that the last time I was anything less than completely honest, it didn't particularly end well for anyone involved. Especially not for me.

I paraphrase here:

Dave, I have flung shit into the fan. Brace yourself for the splatter.

And what really sucks is that there was nothing to follow that up. There I was, wearing my best raingear in hopes of weathering the shit storm that was about to hit, and nothing else happened. Nothing at all.

And what sucked even more was that there was nobody that I could whine about it to. None of my friends were at Rich O's - unless you count CuteBlonde and her husband, who I don't count, or DooRagGirl, who was there with some kids for a brief time - and I ended up bracing myself for nothing.

While I waited, and braced myself, I had some beer. Specifically, I had a couple of bottles of my beloved Baltika 6 (298) and a bottle of Weihenstephaner (378).

And now, now I wait.

What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do? What to do?

I don't know.

Last night I wasn't supposed to be at Rich O's. I was supposed to be over at the tournament.

Didn't work out that way. I plan to write more about it, but for now I'm still coming to grips with it a little. Plus, I don't want it to sound like sour grapes. So maybe later.

Anyway, after a nap, I went to Rich O's.

The place was so fucking crowded. I really just wanted to leave, but I stayed to keep up the appearance that I wasn't as bothered by things as I really was.

The draft list didn't have anything that interested me, but the bartender recommended one of these:

New Holland The Poet Sweet Stout (4)

(draft) Recommended by the bartender. I didn't really give this beer a fair tasting. It was very roasty, and tasted a little burnt to me. Past experience tells me that if I'd finished the glass I'd probably have liked it better by then. I'll attempt to have this again someday.

After I'd stood at the end of the bar for an hour or so, the island opened up and I went and sat with DooRagGirl and LuckyFucker and this dude that doesn't have a nickname yet.

I switched to something I know and like for the rest of the night. I had three bottles of Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier (362) and all were yummy.

Eventually all of the strangers left the living room area so we went over there. LuckyFucker and his friend left soon afterward and I just spent some time talking with DooRagGirl and making fun of this one fucker who was wearing a leather cowboy hat.

Okay, so I'm home again.

Today was a giant disappointment.

I didn't want to be there, and that lack of interest eventually showed up in my game.

I need to write more about this, but now right now.

Maybe tomorrow.

...is missing a fucking message, that I've been waiting for, simply because I'm downstairs.

I really really really need to figure out a way to have my doorbell ring or something whenever I get an e-mail from people on a certain list. It shouldn't be that tough. I've got all this X-10 shit all over my house, and I can already control my lights from my computer.

I should be able to do this.

Once upon a time, something inside me snapped, and a part of me that I didn't even know I had screamed. And it screamed, and it screamed.

Echoes of those screams still reverberate inside me, bouncing around to and fro off the walls of this hollow shell that defines the place where I used to keep my soul. The echoes are softer now. Usually, I have to really concentrate to be able to detect them at all. And, even if I do think I hear something, I'm usually able to ignore it. To dismiss it as a memory of a memory, not relevant at all.

Usually.

But sometimes, like tonight, one of those echoes manages to bully its way close enough to the surface, close enough to the surface that I simply cannot ignore it. So I have what might be called an anxiety attack, or on bad nights, a panic attack.

Tonight was a bad night.

It started when I was about halfway through my glass of Delirium Tremens (409). There was a time when a good Belgian ale would actually calm my stomach down. But not tonight. My hands started shaking and my gut started doing flips, and I knew right away that this was not a good night for me to be at Rich O's.

Trooper that I am, though, I did try to tough it out. After my Tremens, I had a half glass of Upland Bad Elmer's Porter (42) and enjoyed that while I kept my eyes locked on the entrance to Rich O's proper. I don't know who I was expecting to walk through that door. The grim specter of death might have been a welcome sight - that would at least have explained the anxiety, the incredible sense of dread that was washing over me.

No such luck.

By the time my porter was gone, I knew that there was no way I could stay in that place for another minute.

So I left.

Eventually, hopefully, I'll stop shaking, and then I'll go downstairs and shoot some pool. I really need the practice.

From rebunting's journal:

I want you to remember that you don't have the whole story. You don't know everything that happened, you don't know what it was like to live what I lived.

Nobody knows the whole story of what happened to me. Only two people really even come close, and they only know what I was able to describe. Most of what went on defied description even while it was happening, and now it's all blurred by the passage of time and the imperfect memory a brain has for what a heart feels. Felt. Whatever. Fuck.

So people roll their eyes at me, or they chuckle at me, or they shake their heads at me.

And I bite my tongue, and I wish I shared their ignorance.

Starting tomorrow, you people might have to get along without me for a while.

Now, I'm not going to pull a Natalie, and disappear for a million billion gazillion years, but it could be as long as four days.

Some of you may know that I'm a fairly serious pool player. Well, that seriousness leads me, every year at about this time, to spend some of my hard-earned money and some of my precious time and compete in the Derby City Classic. This is actually a series of tournaments held in Louisville.

My specialty is Bank Pool, and that's the event that I participate in. But even more important than that, I attend the thing and I get to spend several days with other pool players. Pool players are even better than beer snobs as far as I'm concerned.

So I don't know if I'll be updating here between Friday morning and Tuesday. My intention is to update my pool 'blog during this time, and then if there's any time and energy left, I'll update my regular 'blog.

There'll probably at least be a Thursday beer report, as tonight is virtual Friday for me. Yay!

You know what pisses me off?

Besides everything, I mean.

There was a time when I could just sit down here and start typing, and words would string themselves together on my screen in a way that actually made a little bit of sense. To me anyway. I had so much inside me back then, things that were dying to get out. It took less effort to write than it would have taken to keep things contained.

Now, not so much.

I used to have things that I needed to write. Now I've just got things that I want to write. Before, all I had do to was loosen the grip on myself just a little and all of my thoughts and emotions would just start flowing out through my fingers. Now, I have to make an actual effort. And then I see what I've written and I'm like, was that even worth it?

Usually, it's not.

Like this entry right here.

This is just some extra crap I thought of in the shower this morning.

That's right - I was totally naked when I thought this stuff up.

Naked!

I asked for this. I actually begged and pleaded and struggled and fought for this. This is what I wanted. This is what I needed. If I keep telling myself these things, do it often enough and for a long enough period of time, then maybe I'll stop fucking whining about it so much.

If I'd just let myself go, and stop overthinking things so much, I bet I'd be a lot happier. I'd probably be an asshole, but I'd be a happier asshole.

I love women. I love the way that every line of their body is a curve, never beginning, never ending. Just curves, always leading to somewhere beautiful. I love the way they smell. I love the way their jeans fit. I love the way their eyes tell you everything you need to know about them.

The best night of my life? Easy. July 15th, 1995. I spent the entire night with my dad at his little camper out in the country. Sitting on his deck, drinking cheap beer, and talking about life and love and everything. Talking like friends instead of like father and son.

The worst night of my life? Easy. October 9th, 2004.

It's almost 2:00 now. This beer has taken longer to drink than I'd thought it would. I suppose that I should try to get some sleep now. I hope I don't dream.

I hate this. I hate this doubt and this insecurity and this fear. I fucking hate it all. But what I hate the most, what I hate more than anything else, is that it's all coming from inside my own treacherous self, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

I often wondered, what will all this pain look like, when I finally can look at it from the outside? I know now what it looks like, and it's not very pretty. I think that, in some ways, being surrounded by it and overwhelmed by it was actually preferable to this, to this detachment that's become my crutch lately. At least back then, I felt like I was a part of something special, something unusual. Now, not so much.

I think about a couple of my friends who've recently started reading my 'blog. I try to keep things light for them - but not too light. I want to come off as neither a lunatic nor as a child. This is easier said than done. Especially when I'm both. I want to come off as insightful at times, and as brilliant at others. This is easier said than done. Especially when I'm neither.

I've begun to seriously doubt that I'll ever regain the ability to just shut the fuck up. I used to be such a quiet person, especially when it came to my feelings. But that was easy when I had none. Now I'm sort of like a born-again Christian. It's not enough for me to marvel at my own transition. I have to shout about it to the world. Some things I should whisper first, just to see how they sound. Just to see who listens.

What is the proper response when a reader completely misinterprets one of your metaphors? Should you gently correct them so that they may experience your words as you intended, or should you let them keep their delusions and be glad that your words have meaning to someone - even if it's not the meaning you intended?

I had a dream a while ago. A nightmare actually. I started to write about it, but I never finished. Even now, I cannot think about it long enough to describe it. It tears at me, and haunts me from inside my soul, and I'm afraid that by describing it, I'll relive it.

I'm at such a fucking pivotal point right now. In my life, in my work, in my journal. In everything. I sometimes think I could toss it all away and start fresh, but then I remember that it'd still be the same old me, so why bother?

I analyze things too much. Especially those things that are beyond analysis. You'd think that I would have learned my lesson You'd think that I'd just let my heart run the show. After all, what has by brain done for me lately?

If this ends the same way it ended last time, at least I know that I'll get through it.

One of those stupid nights for me.

I let my nap run on for too long, so now it's after midnight and I'm not even close to being tired. Not that I've been sleeping very much during normal hours anyway. Just having the option would be nice.

Not tonight though. Not for a while at least.

I've pulled a bottle of Alaskan Smoked Porter from my fridge, and so I'll enjoy this, one of my favorite beers, for probably the next hour. After that, who knows?

Maybe I'll sleep, and then maybe I'll snap awake in the middle of the night, as I did last night, and stare at my ceiling until I can't stand it anymore, then I'll get up and check my e-mail or something.

Perhaps I'll have one of those dreams again. One of those dreams that annoy the shit out of me because she isn't in it, but somebody else is. Somebody that I have no business dreaming about.

Maybe I'll pick up my phone, and twirl it through my fingers.

Or maybe I'll just sit here and type random boring crap until my alarm goes off in the morning.

The problem is, I think I'm running out of road here.

It feels like I've been on it forever. I never cared where it led me, as long as it was far from my starting point. As long as I could finally get to a place where all I saw behind me was the road, and everything else was hidden by the distance and the time through which I'd traveled.

I really should have thought ahead a little.

Now this road is ending, and I don't know what to do next.

Sometimes I think that maybe I should just turn around and walk back the other way.

It's not the destination that matters, it's the journey.

Isn't that the saying?

Some crap like that, anyway.

Not much to report, but I want to put something out there, so I will.

Last night, SassyGirl called to remind me that (a) They're trying to make Mondays into Gay Night at Rich O's, and that (b) I'd been named an honorary gay and was therefore expected to attend.

I told her that I'd think about it. I spent some time trying to come up with an excuse that would be better than but I have to work tomorrow and I wasn't having much luck. I thought to myself that if HatGirl was going to be there I'd definitely go.

Two seconds later, my phone rang. It was HatGirl, wondering if I was going to Rich O's. I told her of course I was.

So I went.

In an attempt to force myself to not spend the entire night at Rich O's, I went for the strong stuff right off the bat. My Delirium Tremens (389) was delicious.

As I said, not much to report. SassyGirl, SassyBoy, and several of their friends were there, and they pretty much just talked to each other. HatGirl was there, and she spent most of her time talking with some old bald dude while I wished that I was old(er) and bald.

My second (and last) beer was a half glass of Bell's Kalamazoo Stout (215). It was also yummy. By the time I finished it, SassyGirl had vanished, and HatGirl had gone home.

Just when I was ready to leave, SpikeBoy came in, so I spent a few extra minutes catching up with him. I'm pretty sure that I told him some stuff that I shouldn't have told him. Hopefully, he's better at keeping his mouth shut than I am.

He couldn't be worse.

Why, I wonder, did you feel the need to share that particular bit of information with me?

Sure, I pretended to be glad for you, and I suppose the non-selfish part of me is glad for you, but c'mon!

Next time why not just kick me in the nuts?

Right now, I really want to write something, but I won't.

I wonder, do you want to read something, but you can't?

Read my mind, if you dare, and you may see those words that I want to write.

Read my mind, if you dare, and you may see those words that you want to read.

At least I hope you want to read them.

If not, then please ignore this entire entry.

It wasn't written for you anyway.

Unless it was.

Who's Your Happy Bunny?
brought to you by Quizilla

After reading this, you may decide that I'm an asshole.

If you do, then you're in good company, because I agree with you.

I can tell you what happened, but I cannot tell you what I said to make it happen. This stupid discretion thing is such a pain.

So I can tell you that I made MixedSignalGirl cry last night, and that's about it. Even if I tell you that I was being completely honest, even if I tell you that we've always been brutally honest with each other, even if I tell you that I'm as bothered by what I had to say as she was, none of that matters because I can't tell you what I said. I can't tell you because, because...

Fuck! I can't even tell you why I can't tell you.

So feel free to let your imagination run away with you, if that's what you want to do. I made the girl who's probably the only person to love me in over a decade - maybe ever for all I know - cry. I deserve whatever ire your imagination can generate, because I knew before I said anything what the outcome was going to be, and I still said it.

SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: This is completely unrelated, but I'm looking at the comic at davethepa's journal as I write this, and I really wish I could draw. I should work on that I think.

Anyway, there are two slightly mitigating factors. First, everything I said was the truth, even though it made zero sense, not even to me. Second, we've had a couple of talks since, and we're okay again. Until next time I suppose. Perhaps she'll learn to not ask questions of me unless she's sure that she wants to know the answer.

Not that I'm blaming her. Not at all. It's my stupid heart's fault. Again.

All of this drama took place at Buckhead's. I'd gone there to pass the time last night, rather than just sit around the house waiting for Nat to show up in my visitor list. Plus, I did need to talk to MixedSignalGirl. Plus they still have Upland Chocolate Stout on tap.

I called her from the Hooter's parking lot, and I made a quick run into that place to talk with my cousin Jeff for a few minutes, then I went across the street to Buckhead's.

As I said, I can't get into the conversation too much. Or at all.

To drink, I had a couple pints of Upland Chocolate Stout (262) and, after MixedSignalGirl had left in tears, I had a Weihenstephaner (311). Then I remembered to order some fried green tomatoes for VigilanteGirl.

I wrote recently that sometimes shit just happens. Well, shit is definitely happening. I wish I could explain it. I wish I could have explained it to MixedSignalGirl, and I wish I could explain it to my readers, and I wish I could explain it to myself.

But I can't, so I must be an asshole.

And that's right back where I started with this entry.

You ever wake up at 2:00 AM and think, wow, I sure am stupid?

How about, do you ever wake up at 2:00 AM and think, wow, Dave sure is stupid?

At about the time I arose from my semi-sleep with the realization that the title of that last comic made no sense whatsoever, at about the time I decided that I'd never get back to sleep until I changed it, my phone rang.

MixedSignalGirl.

"Hey, were you awake?" she asked.

"Hi. I actually just woke up," I answered.

"Me too. You know what woke me up?"

"What?"

"I can't figure out if you like Sam Adam's beer or not. It's driving me crazy. And that title makes no sense."

"I just realized the same thing! I'm going to change it now," I said, thinking that this was a little weird.

"What are you going to change it to?" she asked.

"It doesn't matter," I answered. "Anything would be better than that."

"Okay, call me tomorrow?"

"I will. Bye Miss."

I never did tell her if I like Sam Adam's or not. That'll give us something to talk about tomorrow.

Anyone who's been sitting on the edge of their seat, waiting for my tale of drunken debauchery, is going to be very disappointed.

It was just not that exciting of a night. It most certainly was not the kind of party that RockGirl suggested.

I went to this very nice house that belongs to a friend of my sister, Dina. I spent the night talking with Dina and her fiancé Kenny and SpoonsGirl and her husband. I didn't know anyone else, and I really didn't see the point of getting to know anyone else. I'm kind of a jerk sometimes, I guess.

So we played some darts. SpoonsGirl's husband and I won two out of three games.

We played some Euchre. I think that Dina and I won 2 out of three games, then later Kenny and I lost two out of three.

To drink I had a couple bottles of Weihenstephaner (295) and a couple bottles of Alaskan Smoked Porter (286).

The highlight of the night, for me, was going outside at about 11:45 and doing my little yearly rehash thingy. Just like last year, I ended up talking with a ghost. But it was okay. I got through it, and came back into the house at about 12:15.

It's 2006. Yay.

Wow, one of the few resolutions I made for 2006 was to stop writing drivel and I couldn't even make it through the very first entry of the year.

I wish that I could memorize my little midnight conversations.

I call them conversations even though they're anything but that. Soliloquies would be more appropriate.

I wish I could record them, and hover my finger over a play button, until the next time I see her, then jab that button, stand back, and watch the magic unfold.

For some reason, at midnight on each December 31st, I know exactly what to say.

The rest of the year I'm tongue-tied and bewildered.

But tonight, tonight at midnight specifically, I was smooth.

Tonight at midnight, she would have at least listened.

And, tonight at five minutes after midnight, she would have at least understood.