So today was kinda fun I guess.

I got the opportunity to explain myself to a friend who, somehow, had managed to remain clueless as to what's been going on with me. What's been wrong with me. Why I am the way I am. Why I write the drivel that I write.

I guess she must have thought I was a bipolar asshole for no reason whatsoever.

Well, I told her the reason.

I'm not ashamed of what happened to me. It's not like I had a choice in the matter. If I'd had a choice things would be different, to be sure, but there was never a choice. There was only inertia and gravity and roadways and all those other metaphors that I've become so accustomed to flinging and slinging about.

Remember the gorilla? That one was my favorite.

I've just noticed that I'm writing in the past tense now.

That's a stupid thing to do. Stupid and premature. For that tense implies, duh, that this is in the past. That it's over.

I don't know that.

I only suspect it.

And I've been wrong before.

Tomorrow I have to change cubicles.

This really blows. Partly because I had one of the best cubicles on the floor - one of the few where you can sit facing the traffic flow instead of always having your back to part of it - but also because I won't get to sit next to EwokGirl anymore. She's moving to the other side of the building, and I'm moving just one row over next to this old man who is quite a good guy but who probably won't appreciate my running commentary on the idiots of the world.

I'll also have to cut way back on my complaining about how much Lotus Notes sucks. Not because it doesn't suck, but because the language that I typically use to describe how much it sucks, and what it sucks, well that language is really not suitable for my new high-traffic location.

People that I hate:

1. Whores

2. Fuckheads

3. Sluts

4. Whores again

This list is not all-inclusive.

I feel kinda dumb.

I didn't read the company name on the box. What I thought was perhaps a charity with a stupid name turned out to be a parody of those "inspirational" posters that you sometimes see at work. If your job sucks, at least.

Oh, well. Live and learn I guess.

A few people did ask me what was in the box though. I answered that I had no idea. It wasn't addressed to anyone I know. I suggested that the cure for hope might be different for everyone.

A terrible diagnosis, a failed final exam, a guilty verdict, a rejected marriage proposal. Hope can be cured in so many ways - it's a wonder that it ever exists at all.

And some things, some things can remove all hope from one person yet breathe new life into another's.

Such as the situation I'm currently facing.

I don't know for sure if there's anyone that's happy about this. I think that, for now at least, I'm better off not knowing. But conventional wisdom would indicate that this is a happy event. Perhaps even a joyous one.

But not for me. For me, it's a cure for hope.

I know what's in my box. What's in yours? What would it take to cure your hope?

This was spotted with the rest of our incoming mail at work today.

I have no idea why I'm still here, seemingly as good as ever. Not that that is saying much. May as well say that smotlock is as subtle as ever.

There, I've mentioned smotlock. That should get me some hits.

My friend SassyGirl asked me today how I was doing. She did that head-tilting thing when she asked me which meant that she already knew the answer.

At least she thought that she did.

I dunno if I'm in denial here or what. It doesn't really feel that way. It feels more like I've given up, like this latest obstacle looming before me has finally caused me to accept that which I've been denying for a very long time.

This place where I'm at. That place where I long to be. There's no way to get there from here.

And, oddly enough, I'm okay. Obstacle after pitfall after trap after ambush have been placed before me, and until now I've always found a way to just go around, to just keep moving, to keep hoping.

And now, not so much.

I see before me a barrier that I'm unwilling to cross, and a part of me is relieved that I can finally stop this mindless quest. And, even if this respite turns out to be temporary, it's still a chance to rest, and that's something that I haven't had in a long time.

I told RockGirl today that I was waiting to die. Tonight, at least a part of me is waiting to live.

So, don't throw dirt over me just yet.

I'm still here. For now.

The nice thing about this is that it's giving me something to think about, but the bad thing about this is that it's giving me something to think about.

Too many things, actually.

My mind is aswarm with thoughts, my heart is teeming with feelings, all with their own agendas. Some will merge for a brief time, join forces in fierce battle against their enemies, swear allegiance to false alliances, but all the while only truly working toward their own vision of an idealized conclusion.

Others are adversaries from the start. Like dogs and cats, like Arabs and Jews, they are born into this war which began long ago and which will continue long after these individual skirmishes and battles and betrayals have become nothing more than forgotten footnotes in a history book.

And the individual combatants, so full of resolve and so possessed of purpose, they will become nothing more than patches of ground where the flowers, nourished by the blood-soaked earth, grow vibrant and strong.

And me?

Well, I'm Mars, The God of War.

...here are some things that made me feel good today:

1. I got a bunch of anonymous messages and emails all containing wonderful words of encouragement.

2. A hot girl sent me a picture of herself in a bikini.

3. HatGirl is finally back from her vacation.

4. It was actually halfway warm outside.

Three times today, I went and pushed the elevator button, and three times the door opened immediately. That means that the elevator was already on my floor, right?

Then why was there somebody in the damn thing? How long had they been there? What were they doing in there?

This kind of shit bugs me.

My sanity is like a game of emotional Jenga right now. It could collapse at any moment.

I wrote that simile in an email today, and I immediately liked it. I'd like it a fuck of a lot more if it wasn't so true.

I figure that there are two people on Earth that know what I'm talking about right now. Then there are maybe one or two more that could guess. Those numbers will grow over the next few days and perhaps weeks until eventually most of the people in my life will know.

And then, once they know, they'll all turn to look at me. To watch me crumble into dust. Again.

Some of them will, I'm convinced, watch with genuine concern, with sympathy and empathy. Those are the people that truly care about me. They will feel pain because I will feel pain. And for that I am both eternally grateful and profoundly sorry.

The rest of you, the rest of you who will watch this happen to me with nothing but amusement and smugness and self-righteousness, don't let me catch you giggling and pointing in my direction. Don't let me see you rolling your eyes at me as you dismiss my pain with a wave of your hand. I will take you down with me. I will fucking tear you apart.

There is actually irony here. I've often used this scenario to describe how much worse things could get. I was living in the eighth circle of Hell, but I could always point to the ninth circle and say, "You know, maybe it isn't so bad here after all. Those poor souls really have it rough."

Well, I'm about to relocate.

Those words which I've used to describe what's the worst that could happen have suddenly and horribly been transformed from impossible nightmare into cold hard fact. I seem to be, so far, unable to accept it. I seem to be refusing to accept it and recognize it for what it is. I imagine that I will continue to refuse to accept it until this protective bubble bursts, until that camel's back breaks, until that last game piece is moved and everything collapses.

My sanity is like a game of emotional Jenga right now. It could collapse at any moment.

In yet another attempt to maintain some semblance of normalcy, I present this entry. Don't expect much though as I haven't slept since Saturday morning.

I got to Rich O's a little after 9:00. The place was packed. FutureDude told me that Friday had actually been fairly dead. Well that makes sense - I wasn't in there on Friday so nobody really saw any point in showing up.

So, like I said, the place was packed. There were some people that I know in the living room area, but I really didn't feel like squeezing myself in there, and I really didn't feel like having to entertain anyone, so I just stood at the end of the bar and had myself a BBC Jefferson's Reserve Bourbon Barrel Stout (60).

After a short while, the strangers sitting at the end of the bar left so I sat there and basically didn't move for the next two hours except to piss and call SassyGirl to see if she was coming out after work.

My second beer was another of the bourbon thingies (80).

My third beer was a Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier (718).

I was enjoying a nice quiet evening, and nobody bothered me.

SassyGirl came in a little after 11:00 and we talked for a while. She told me the news that prompted my last entry. I came home at about 12:30 and stared at my ceiling until about 5:30, then I had to go to work.

I'm sitting in a protective bubble. It cannot be seen, and it cannot be felt, but it is there nevertheless. For proof of its presence one need only recognize one simple fact.

I am not crying.

I should be crying, but I'm not. I should be devastated, but I'm not. I should be so upset and heartbroken that even the reflexive tapping of my fingers against this keyboard should prove to be impossible for me.

But I'm not.

Where this bubble came from, I don't know. It certainly wasn't any of my doing. The last time I found myself in what I thought was a safe haven, what I perceived to be a secure harbor, the last time I thought I was protected from harm - well that turned out to be the biggest lie I'd ever told myself.

And when that bubble burst, when that bubble burst is the day that I died. And I vowed that, if I could somehow manage to bring myself back from the dead, that I'd never lie to myself again.

For now though, I'm still here. This bubble still somehow manages to protect me. Though the monsters of this new reality rage all around me I am somehow, miraculously, still here. Still safe.

I don't understand it.

I don't believe it.

I don't trust it.

This bubble will burst, and then the monsters will claw me to pieces, and I will die once again.

This will happen. It's only a matter of time.

Last night, I did not go to Rich O's. I did not, in fact, go to any bar at all.

Weird, huh?

That's what I thought.

What I did was I went to a surprise birthday party for my friend Eric. Though I'm not sure how much of a surprise it was, what with all of the cars in the driveway. Maybe seeing all of those cars was the surprise.

First things first, though. I went to the liquor store. I was planning to pick up a six-pack of Weihehstephaner, but they were out. So instead I bought a six-pack of Upland Chocolate Stout, then came back home and constructed my own little party pack consisting of two bottles of the Upland (286), two bottles of Winterkoninkske Winter King (136), and two bottles of Weihenstephaner (701) that I'd forgotten were in my fridge.

Thusly armed, I went to the house of this dude that graduated with Eric for the party.

It was a nice quiet affair. We talked. We played some euchre. My brother-in-law Chris and I won about 800 games in a row I think.

I actually managed to drink all of the beer I'd brought with me. And I didn't die.

That's simply amazing to me, mostly because that Winterkoninkske is some pretty strong stuff.

One other thing that was nice was that my phone kept ringing. People wanted to know where I was, why I wasn't at Rich O's, when I was coming to Rich O's, how they were supposed to keep on living if I wasn't at Rich O's. I assured them all that I'd be there on Saturday night.

What I didn't tell them was that I have to work Sunday morning so I may not stay for very long.

I suppose that I could accept certain things as normal, given the circumstances, but what fun would that be?

So, instead, I choose to be offended. Like this:

You stuck up bitch! You think you're so special? I got your "special" hanging right here!

Ha ha.

Just kidding.

I truly could not expend any less effort toward caring about your stoicism. Please get over yourself, and do it quickly before you truly become the person you are, right now, pretending to be.

Nobody likes that bitch very much.

I think that what I fear most, right now, is that she will come back into my life and she and I will become...

I don't even know if there's a word for it.

Unable or unwilling to discuss those things that lurk between us, joining us together yet still keeping us so separate. Unable or unwilling to be friends. Unable or unwilling to be enemies. Unable or unwilling to be anything at all beyond a silent sigh or a stolen glance or a flash of anger or a skipped heartbeat or a twinge of regret or a little bubble of hate or love that rises to the surface and then pops with an almost audible sound because it cannot exist in this artificial world.

And endless, countless moments of wondering.

Am I alone in this place, or does she inhabit it with me? If I search long enough, will I find her here?

My heart has become an old sponge, readily absorbing anything that gets too close, but unable to hold on.

I feel myself soak it all in, then I watch in dismay as it seeps away from me once again and spreads out in a widening stain of color across this gray plain.

I think I've been wrung out too many times.

10. I'll wait for you.

I never saw her again.

9. As soon as I'm ready, you'll be the first to know.

I was maybe the second to know, after her new boyfriend.

8. I miss you.

She missed my money.

7. You can trust me this time.

No, I couldn't.

6. You're imagining things.

No, I wasn't.

5. It was tough, but I'm doing fine now.

She killed herself.

4. But we're friends!

Whatever we were, it wasn't friends.

3. I think that we can make this work.

She was already plotting her escape.

2. I won't leave without giving you a chance to say goodbye, not again.

She did it again.

1. I do.

No, she didn't.

...if somebody would have tried to tell me two years ago, if somebody had tried to tell me then what was about to happen to me, what had actually already started to happen to me - I'd never had believed that either.

If fact, some people did try to tell me, and I dismissed them as romantic-minded pansies. In fact, I tried to tell myself, and I dismissed myself as an aging fart rapidly approaching another midlife crisis.

All of the disbelief in the world didn't change a single fucking thing back then. I see no reason to expect it to be any different in the future. Disbelief of the obvious and denial of the truth may slow the inevitable, but they will never stop it.

That's why it's called inevitable. They made up a word just for situations like this.

I'll know when I meet her. I just will. It may take some time to admit it to myself, but eventually I will accept it because there will be no other alternative.

And then, then once I've finally fucking accepted and embraced the truth, that same old question will be there waiting.

Am I too late?

I really like this upside-down sleep schedule I've been on lately during the work week

There's just something about being able to go to sleep when I'm tired - like when I first get home from work - that makes me feel like I have a little bit of power over my life.

Then, I can wake up at midnight or whenever, and watch my tivoed TV shows and read a little and maybe even write a little bit myself and I can do all of those things while I'm fairly alert and awake.

Or, if the mood strikes me, I can sleep all fucking night. It's my life, and my choice.

Of course nothing is perfect. I still have to flip my schedule back around in time for the weekends. That hasn't proved to be too tough so far though. All I need is the willpower to get off the damn couch no later than 8:00 on Thursday night.

Man, this was an exciting entry.

I'd like to think that there'll be no doubt, when I meet her.

I'd like to think that, but recent and not so recent events in my life have convinced me that this will most likely not be the case. There will be doubt, and there will be fear, and there will be insecurity and indecision and hesitance.

What there will be, most of all I think, is disbelief.

For when I meet her, whoever she might be, and I find myself thinking about her and longing for her and wanting her and not that other girl that, let's be honest, isn't much more than a memory to me now - How could I just blindly accept what was happening to me?

Is it really possible to blow your only chance at love and then discover that it wasn't really your only chance at all? That it was just another in a series, another rung in a ladder?

That it was all really just leading up to something new and better and maybe this time interconnecting and interlocking and interacting?

Requited love. Wouldn't that be something?

I guess I'll believe it when I see it.

I'm still waiting.

Tonight I watched the show Prison Break, which is back after a long Winter hiatus.

Although it's pretty clear from the title of the show that there will indeed be an escape at some point, the drama building up to the scheduled prisoner execution is still fairly gripping. If you like that sort of thing. Which I do.

I got to thinking, What if it was me?

I don't mean what if it was me that was about to be executed after being framed for murder. That would be pretty fucked up, to be sure, but I mean What if I knew that I only had a few hours left to live?

What the hell, what if I had a few weeks instead of a few hours?

What would I do? What would I say? How would I act?

The first thing I'd do would be quit my job. Hang out with my friends and my family. Not for too long though. Just long enough to ease a little bit of the guilt I'd feel for what came next.

I would start selling my possessions. I'd need the money to make my last few weeks enjoyable. Everything would be sold except my house, which would go to my sisters upon my death, and my pool cue, which I'd take with me on a little trip. I'd say goodbye to my home and my cats and my family and my parents' graves and I'd hit the road.

I'd go to Omaha, In hopes that my friend Mike could spare some time to knock some balls around for a while. Maybe I'd kick his ass like I did in the old days. Maybe I'd get him to start throwing chalk around. Good times.

There would be no other reason for me to go to Omaha, so I wouldn't stay for very long. That life ended a long time ago.

Then I'd drive North and West. I like to think that I'd stop in Montana. I owe a couple of people there a big apology. I like to think that I'd do that, but the truth is I don't have the slightest idea where to even start looking for them. I'd probably just end up wishing my best to the trees and the mountains I drove through.

Next, I'd go to Seattle, and I'd stay there until I had only a week left. I'd hang out at my old bar, and drink beer and shoot pool with my old friends. Gene and Holly would probably get sick of me hanging around them so much. That's too bad though, because they made the time when I lived there bearable. I'd need to make sure that they knew it.

With one week left, with one week left I'd hit the road again, and then I'd have a decision to make. And this would be a decision that I don't think can be made ahead of time. Some things are either supposed to be spur of the moment, or they're not supposed to happen at all.

So, I don't know how far I'd take it. I'd absolutely go there. I'd certainly find her. I'd definitely see her.

Would I approach her? Would I talk to her? What would I say?

Would I tell her?

Like I said, some things are meant to be spontaneous, or they're not meant to happen. I'd like to think that I'd be strong enough to keep my big fat mouth shut. To tell her would be pointless and selfish and cruel. So I'd like to think that I'd be able to summon some tiny vestige of willpower and not say a word. I'd definitely see her though. Try and stop me.

Finally, when my time was down to just a day or two, I'd get on a plane. To Alaska maybe. Or Hawaii. I've always wanted to go to Hawaii.

My last day I'd spend alone. Because it would be a fitting ending for a life that's been spent alone. Because I wouldn't want to see the grief my impending death was causing the people I love. Because, let's face it, I really don't like people that much anyway.

A wise man once wrote:

I've heard that some animals, in the last seconds of their life, will often summon every last bit of energy and strength they have and just run. Run to hide, somewhere safe. Run to heal, somewhere warm. Run to die, somewhere private.

I doubt that they'd ever find my body.

In my little notebook, written between the 10:21 entry and the 10:25 entry from last night, is the following.

Hey asshole! Write about opportunities, golden or otherwise.

SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: Except that one time that I wrote an entry about being in a plane while I was actually flying in the thing. That was useful, and it killed some time.

SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: That girl was hot. I wonder what happened to her.

I remember writing that little note about opportunities to myself last night. I remember thinking that it was a good idea for an entry. I do not, unfortunately, remember why I thought it was a good idea. I mean, I must have had something in mind.

I went to Rich O's. I took notes.

9:40
The place is about half-full of strangers. The only person I recognize is CuteBlonde. I sit at the kiddie table and I order a Delirium Tremens (444).

9:44
I'm trying to use my mental powers to make the fucker at the end of the bar realize the futility of his life and leave. He has no beer. He's reading a fucking newspaper. What, they don't have newspapers anywhere else?

9:50
This Tremens is so yummy. I wish it had less alcohol in it.

9:52
I'm supposed to tell people about SassyGirl's party, but she hates even more people than I do.

9:55
I think this fucker is trying to memorize his newspaper.

9:56
CuteBlonde left, so I'm moving to her seat at the bar. It's the wrong end, but it's still better than the kiddie table.

10:00
This one chick keeps looking at me. She might be the same one that tried to pick me up that one night. If so, nice body. If not, still a nice body.

10:10
I'm trying right now to be sad. It's not working.

10:15
Now I'm trying to be happy and that is working. Imagination is a funny thing.

10:16
PaperBoy is finally fucking leaving. Yay! I'm moving my shit to the other end of the bar.

10:20
The secret to being sad is to imagine that you're happy. After a bit, abracadabra, reality shows up like a bull in a china shop.

10:21
I order a Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier (659). They've got the big bottles again. Bigger is better.

10:25
I can imagine those two seconds, lurking somewhere in the future, I can imagine them over and over and over, and it never fails to make me smile.

10:32
Piss time.

10:34
I'm not finished with the Weihenstephaner, but I'm ordering a half-pint of this:

BBC Jefferson's Reserve Bourbon Barrel Stout (10)

(draft) A very dark red. Bourbon aroma is very faint - almost not noticeable. The flavor is a quite mild stout with only the slightest hint of bourbon showing up in the finish. Not too bad.

10:50
I finally remembered to ask about the ABV in this bourbon beer.

10:55
Nobody knows. I'm guessing it's less than 7%.

10:57
After further review, this beer is yummy. I don't know why though.

10:59
Piss time.

11:01
That one slut changed her hair. It looks good, but there's no telling what it will look like once she washes all of the semen out of it.

11:02
I've finished the bourbon beer. Back to the Weihenstephaner.

11:05
A chick just came in that looks like Ella, but not as hot.

11:06
I wish a Natalie or Neela or Rachel clone would come in.

11:09
I miss HatGirl.

11:15
FutureDude has joined me.

11:16
Apparently the bartenders call the island area the "red bar" area. I like mine better.

11:30
Piss time.

11:40
I order a pint of Diet Coke and I buy a Weihenstephaner glass and two bottles of Weihenstephaner. FutureDude thinks that I'm planning to get fucked up tonight.

11:41
Fuck it. I'm going to ask.

11:42
He claims to have no idea what I'm talking about.

11:50
DooRagGirl is here.

12:00
I'm outta here. White Castle sounds good.

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When this is finished, I get to go out.

Not much of a report this time. I didn't even get to Rich O's until 11:45.

There were some strangers sitting in the living room area, and a couple of regulars at the bar. I sat at the island and had a couple pints of Guinness (1197), partly because of the St. Patrick's Day thing, but mostly because the place would be closing soon and I wanted something that wouldn't kill me or get me arrested if I pounded it.

I think that island seat is my favorite seat in the place. When any of my friends are there I usually end up sitting in the throne, but sometimes there's too much pressure to be entertaining over there. I'd rather sit at the island and watch all the other idiots. Failing that, I'd rather sit at the bar with my back to the world.

It was a short but relaxing night. I got to visit the ghost for a while, and then at the very end FutureDude and I talked for a bit. None of the bartenders seemed to care very much that I had to work last night. I wonder why.

At least I did manage to make it out. It had been looking for a while like I was going to have to work all fucking night.

As, apparently, I'm still me and I can't really see any way around that dilemma right now, I'm still doing what I always do.

I pick and poke and I examine and evaluate and I analyze and appraise, and after a while I start to make some sense out of whatever the fuck happens to be wrong with me at that particular point in time.

Because if I can understand it, or failing that at least be able to describe it, then theoretically that puts me one step closer to being able to deal with it.

Theoretically.

Some things are tougher to deal with than others. Some things I've been dealing with for years, and if I've shown any progress at all, I assure you that it's been purely accidental.

The current thing that's wrong with me, this lack of motivation that I've been feeling for the past couple of weeks, this is really a simple thing, with a simple cause.

For what seems like a million years, for what is actually more like a year and a half, I've been running on inertia. The events of late Summer and early Fall of the year 2004 - they gave my heart and my mind a mighty shove. The force of that shove proved to be all that I needed to maintain some semblance of a life. To hang out with my friends. To write in my journal. To leave my house. To breathe.

But now, now that inertia is gone. It's run out. Too many outside forces have acted upon me. Hell, too many inside forces have acted upon me, as I strove to divert myself from the path I was hurtling down, to turn myself around, to at least fucking slow my progress, or maybe even halt it completely.

Careful what you wish for, asshole.

That inertia that served me for so long has gone. Now I've coasted to a stop and I don't know where I am. There are no breadcrumbs to lead me back home. There is no sunrise or sunset to give me a sense of direction. There is just me, and this gray place.

A part of me knows that I cannot stay here. A part of me knows that I need to pick a direction and just start walking. But which direction? They all look exactly the same.

I could end up in an even worse place than before, as unimaginable as that may seem. Believe me, I can imagine a worse place.

I should start walking though. I don't like it here. I should just pick a direction and start moving.

But I can't decide which way to go.

I need a sign. I need a landmark. I need fucking anything that I can point to in the distance and tell myself, that's where I'm going, and I'm closer now that I was yesterday.

I'd scan the horizon for such a landmark, but there's no horizon. There's just me, and this gray place.

I need a sign. Or a shove.

Yeah, I think that a shove would be better. That way if I once again found myself moving in the wrong direction, that way I'd have something to blame besides my own stupid heart.

I tell myself that I want to be shoved, guided, perhaps even carried away from this place. I tell myself that I wish I was moving again. I tell myself that I wish there was a destination in sight.

Careful what you wish for, asshole.

I've lost the desire to do this journal thingy.

I'm sure that this is just temporary.

Unless it's not.

I had a dental cleaning and checkup today.

I've decided that it's a good thing I'm not gay.

My gag reflex is much too strong.

I'd be the most miserable gay guy ever.

She is worth it degrades into I think she is worth it degrades into I hope she is worth it degrades into I doubt she is worth it degrades into She is not worth it.

Okay, so I try a different path, a different goal.

We are worth it.

Shit, that's even worse.

Because anything that includes me forces me to look at things from her perspective.

I am not worth it and no degradation is necessary.

Roger didn't really say this, but it would have been funny if he had.

Sometimes I worry that I might have lost the ability to write a coherent sentence. But if I really think about it, I know that if I really apply myself, and if I really drink some beer, I can still pull it off.

This, for example, is a coherent sentence.

There. Subject and verb. And some other crap that probably has some official grammatical name but I can't really be expected to remember everything from my school days. I think that the word sentence might be called an object or some such.

But I digress.

Is it really a digression when I haven't even mentioned what the real topic is supposed to be? Maybe the actual digression will take place only if and when I finally get to that real topic.

I don't know.

I don't care.

Imagine, if you will, two people. Could be a guy and a girl. In this new age of enlightenment I feel like I should also point out that it could be two guys, or it could be two girls. In the future ever-permissive societal standards might compel me to point out that it could be a guy and a chicken. A chicken wouldn't really fall into the people category though. Anyway, for the purposes of this entry I'm going to stick with the standard guy and girl.

Try to keep up, please. I know, it might not be easy. Or worth it. I know that I'm rambling.

You know what? Screw the hypotheticals. This is about me and you know who. Again.

At least partly. I'll offer up other examples in an attempt to make my point. If I can ever remember what my point is supposed to be.

Oh, yeah.

I've written before that I've had fairly good success at staying friendly with my ex-girlfriends. Some more than others, to be sure, but overall I like to think that I've done a little better than average. That's just a guess. It's not like I took a survey or anything.

SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: I think it's funny that I've written all this crap so far and haven't said a single thing.

Anyway, I never fucked her. Not even close.

And, be assured, this is not some trick wherein I'm now going to be all sensitive and shit and say that what we really did was make love. We never did that either. Not even close.

Not even close.

Nobody ever believes that though. I don't know why they don't believe it. I mean, look at her, then look at me. Or, since looking at the two of us to make such a comparison would be costly in both time and money, just take my word for it. She and I are member of two completely different groups of people. I guess the more common term is leagues.

We are not in the same league.

Now, where was I?

Right, I was somewhere that was not inside her. I really cannot stress this enough. It's kind of the basis for my whole point that I may actually get to someday.

So there I was, not inside her, yet I developed feelings for her. Strong feelings. Overwhelming feelings. I may have mentioned them from time to time in this journal.

And there she was, going about her life without me inside her, and also - and this is the part that really sucks for me - without any feelings for me.

SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: This is kind of weird. It was really pretty tough for me to write that last sentence. It's even tougher to read the thing. Funny how you can know something is true but it gains all those extra bonus validity points simply because it's been written out.

I know a girl. A different girl. I've never been inside her either, but that's not relevant right now. What is relevant is that this girl, what this girl has been going through - it's the same as what happened to me.

She knows a guy. She developed strong feelings for the guy, yet the guy would not or could not or at any rate did not return those feelings. And then the guy left her life. Perhaps wihout the totality with which you know who left my life, but he did leave.

So this girl and I have a lot in common, and we've become friends over the Internet. We email each other and discuss our mutual woes because we each know that the other will understand those woes and not be a judgmental asshole about it.

By doing this, we sometimes we even help each other get through the sadness that we're dealing with.

I think I've digressed again.

One of the topics of conversation that my friend and I have shared recently is the question of whether a guy and a girl (or two guys, or whatever - you know the drill) can ever be friends when the feelings are so lopsided.

I've been thinking about this a lot. For like a year and a half. I keep thinking about because I don't like the answer that I keep coming up with.

I don't think, if I'm completely honest with myself, if I'm as objective about all this as I can possibly will myself to be, I don't think that friendship is an option.

It's just too difficult.

It's just not worth it.

Because, you see, it's not the same thing as breaking up with a girlfriend. There's never anything to break up. There's never anything but pain and longing and holding things back and letting some things slip out and watching for reactions that aren't there.

It's disappointment. Pure and simple. Forever. And ever. And you try to tell yourself that just having that person in your life is enough for you, and you try to tell yourself that the pain you feel when you're near that person is nothing compared to the pain you feel when you're not near that person, and you try to tell yourself that you can be strong enough to keep the friendship intact.

You lie to yourself.

I lie to myself.

I never fucked her. Not even close.

If I had, then that would have at least been something. That would have been proof that the feelings weren't completely lopsided, that there was something there, simmering between is, something that we both at least tasted. Something that we had in common. Something that we shared. Even if it didn't work out, we would always have the memory of that physical intimacy and all of the emotional intimacy that accompanied it.

We would have at least known that we'd tried.

And that knowledge, that knowledge just might be enough to ease the pain, to lessen the disappointment, to put things into a better perspective.

To make the whole let's still be friends thing a viable plan.

Without that knowledge, without those memories, I don't think a friendship could work.

I hope that I'm wrong. I really fucking hope that I'm wrong.

If all or nothing are the only choices, and if all isn't available, then all that's left is nothing.

UPDATE 04/20/08: I have updated this entry on this date. I removed some of the crudeness, but the main thing that I want to say is that I was indeed wrong. And I'm glad that I was wrong.

This should be a brief entry. I don't feel like typing anything.

Saturday night started out weird. The first reason it started out weird was that I arrived at 7:00 instead of my usual 8:30ish time. The second reason it started out weird was that I went into the Sportstime side instead of the Rich O's side.

Both these bits of weirdness had the same cause. My sister Neisha, and her husband Chris, and her friend that was visiting from up North, were all there.

That side of the building is just strange, but at least they have the same beer list. I started out with a Guinness (1137) which I drank while everybody else had pizza. I had already eaten, plus I've pretty much given up on the pizza at Sportstime.

Three people that I know from Rich O's had expressed interest in seeing Neisha if she ever came in. The only one I knew how to contact was DooRagGirl, so I texted her. HotRedHead came in on her own, so she got to see Neisha, and I guess she also called GlassesGirl.

After everybody was done with their pizza we went over to Rich O's, stopping on the way to say hi to my cousin Jamie. He was sitting out front.

So, this is boring.

We sat in the living room area and talked and drank some. I had myself a Gravity Head beer:

Christoffel Werelds Winterbier (10)

(draft) Poured a lot darker than I expected. A pretty good beer. No spices or adjuncts that I could detect, so I'm not sure that I completely agree with the "Winter Beer" classification. Good though.

GlassesGirl arrived about two minutes too late. I tried to call Neisha to see if she wanted to turn around and come back but I guess I fat-fingered my phone and I ended up leaving a message at her home number. Duh.

I think that it was about this time that I had another Guinness (1157).

I talked with DooRagGirl and GlassesGirl for a while. Eventually I had myself a Weihenstephaner (618).

I came home fairly early myself because I had to work early Sunday morning.

I could write about more shit from Saturday but I'm not going to.

I remember when I used to be able to come home from the bar and write out halfway decent crap. Tonight makes two nights in a row in which I'm afraid to write anything for fear of making things worse than they already are.

Yeah, like that's fucking possible.

Yesterday we had to go to our local Caesar's for this work thing. I really don't get the purpose of these things. It's like there's this perception that nobody likes each other, but that would all change if we could somehow be forced to spend time together away from work.

Brilliant.

Not.

The people that I like I still like, and the people that are assholes are still assholes.

Actually, I think I like most of the people that went yesterday, so if there was an asshole among us it was probably me.

Anyway, I turned my $10 into $110 playing blackjack. It was quite boring though. My dealer's name was Chance I shit you not. What a stupid name, but if you're going to be a casino dealer I guess it's not too bad.

I'd considered just staying at the casino Friday night, because Rich O's has been so full of idiots lately, but by the time we got released from our team-building stuff I was just too tired. So I called SassyGirl and let her know that I'd be at Rich O's later if she got off work and wanted to come by.

Then, then I got home and I had an email that put me in a bad mood for the rest of the night.

I got to Rich O's a little after 8:00. It was of course standing-room-only. So I stood at the end of the bar and ordered my first beer. I had a sip or two of this a long time ago, but this was my first official tasting:

Urthel Samaranth Quadrium (12)

(draft) This beer is evil. Pure evil. To taste the way it does, which is actually fairly mild, but to pack that much alcohol - well like I said it's evil. As I said, a fairly mild (and fairly standard) Belgian taste. A slight alcohol finish is the only thing that hints at the wolf underneath this sheep's clothing.

"That Guinness, it's only for little girls and pregnant women. I can't stand that stuff," he said to his posse of fuckwads. They all chuckled of course, and I decided that I hated them all.

So, of course, I ordered myself a Guinness. I looked all the fuckwads in the eyes and waited for one of them to say something. They didn't though, because they're all fuckwads.

I drank my Guinness (1117) fairly quickly, and I was considering ordering another one just to push the fuckwads over the edge, but some strangers left the loveseat so I picked up my shit and went over there.

That was, in retrospect, a stupid thing to do, but I guess it was at least better than standing. Maybe.

I finished my Samaranth, and ordered another Gravity Head beer:

Founder's Blushing Monk Belgian Razz (5)

This really sucked.

Some other shit happened. There were idiots all over the place. I did my best to keep to myself, and I came home fairly early.

There's a saying.

If you don't have anything nice to say, then say nothing at all.

Or something like that.

I think that will be my motto for tonight.

Here's a picture of Paco the Alpaca, brought to me all the way from Peru by SassyGirl.

Paco is admiring my second yummy bottle of Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier (606).

I had a couple of remarkably similar conversations tonight, with two different friends. The subjects were similar, as was the advice I offered. The other thing that was similar was that I'm pretty sure that both conversations ended with my friend thinking, Wow, what a fucking hypocrite Dave is.

I believe that my friends were thinking this, because I was certainly thinking it.

...

I was going to write a lot more, and I have written a lot more. I've deleted hundreds of words three or four times.

It was all bullshit.

I was going to write that I've thought things over, and that I no longer believe that I'm a hypocrite. I was going to write that too much time has passed for me to take my own advice. I was going to write that 18 months ago I did try those things that I suggested tonight.

I was going to write a lot of things. I did write a lot of things. But I deleted it all several times.

It was all bullshit.

I guess the motto of this little piece of drivel, if you feel like you need one, the motto would be, Do as I say, not as I do.

I tell myself that it's too late for me to take my own advice. I've been telling myself that for over a year. I've told myself so often and with such conviction that I've managed to make it true.

I am an idiot.

Use that for a motto, if you prefer.

Every now and then, not as often as before but still often enough to be noticeable, I feel a little bit like a fly on a plate.

SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: That sentence really seems familiar to me. Not the words, but the general flow of the thing. I think it might remind me of Moby Dick. I'm not intentionally plagiarizing anyone though, so I guess it's okay.

Years and years ago, when I used to be one of the best pool players in whatever bar I happened to be shooting and/or hanging out in, I guess I got used to that feeling. Of being in the spotlight. Of everybody watching me. All the time.

I guess I got used to it, and I guess I kinda liked it even. It probably motivated me to excellence and shit.

But that was a long time ago. In the years since then, the spotlights have come from completely different directions, for completely different reasons.

These days, my friends at Rich O's often look to me to set the mood. To tell the jokes. To keep them entertained. These days, more often than I really care to speculate on, I seem to be in charge of whether my friends enjoy themselves.

Talk about pressure!

For the most part, I think, my friends eventually figure out that I'm a bit of an asshole. At that point they either stop talking to me or they at least stop relying on me to be their only source of entertainment. This is perfectly fine with me. I cannot be "on" all of the time. It's exhausting.

My family is an entirely different matter.

The thing about my sisters, and of course I love them like sisters, is that they just don't seem able to accept the fact that I'm not the same person that they know from before. Hell, I'm not even close.

Back then, I was introverted, and friendly, and caring, and patient.

These days, these days I'm not.

Patient? I don't have fucking time for that.

Caring? What's in it for me?

Friendly? As long as you can prove that you're not an idiot within 10 seconds of meeting me.

Introverted? Okay, fine. That's still there. It's just not as noticeable as it used to be.

So, basically, like I said up above, I'm an asshole. I'm self-centered, and I'm kind of a beer snob, and I'm so easily annoyed by strangers that I make Boo Radley seem like Richard Simmons in comparison.

SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: Mr. Simmons was just the most extroverted person I could think of on such short notice. There are probably several people who would be better suited for the purpose for which I wrote the above.

Anyway.

This weekend my sister Neisha is supposed to be coming to Rich O's. This is such a fantastic and rare occasion that I'm a little worried that the denizens of Hell may be at risk from frostbite.

SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: Now would be a really good time to open a Winter clothing store in Hell. Or maybe go down there and hang a shingle proclaiming myself as a personal injury attorney. But then again, Hell is probably already full of lawyers, so I should just stick with the Winter clothing store idea.

So, even though it's still three days away, and I remain aware anything could happen between now and then, I'm a little excited about the prospect of Neisha coming into Rich O's.

I'm also a little nervous about it.

Not because my sister is coming. Nope, I'm a little nervous because she's bringing a friend. She's bringing a friend from out of town specifically to meet me.

Talk about pressure!

I have no idea what my sister has told her friend about me. I can only imagine. Probably the usual stuff.

Dave is funny.

Dave is charming.

Dave is smart.

Dave can juggle.

Dave walks on water and performs other miracles.

At least I don't have to worry about the Dave is HOT thing because (a) I'm not hot, and (b) it's my sister.

Saturday night, I need to be on my best behavior. Saturday night, I need to do whatever I can do to keep my sister from being called a liar.

Saturday night, I need to be on.

You know what I like about my life right now?

I like the fact that, for the first time that I can remember, I seem to have the entire gamut of emotions at my beck and call.

This is really pretty cool, this place that I find myself in. Even though I complain about it what seems like all the fucking time.

Q: How do you know Dave is complaining about something?

A: Because he's awake.

Here's a little challenge for you. Pick an emotion. Give me a minute, and I can be experiencing that emotion.

Some are easier than others, of course. Some I might even call difficult. But not impossible.

A friend of mine asked me today if I ever felt hate. That's actually one of the tough ones for me. But I can do it. I have to reach far back - years and years - into my past, and think about things that I'd rather not think about, but I can do it. If I'm completely honest with myself, then I have to admit that I do hate her for what she did, over and over and over and over and over and over. Without remorse. Without anything that could even be remotely considered as being anything similar to regret. With nothing but pure selfishness. I hate that fucking whore.

Yes, I do hate her. For who she is, and for the coward that she turned me into.

Love, the one emotion that I always figured was impossible for me to feel - that's the one that turned out to be the easiest of all. That's the one that I live with, that's a part of me, that I cannot completely shake even when I want to do so. I try to run from it, and I try to hide from it, and I try to deny that I ever felt it. Feel it. But there's no use running, or hiding, or denying. It always catches up. It always finds me. It always stands right in front of me and does a little dance that always makes me laugh. This is what I feel when I let my mind and my heart relax and stop trying to escape the inescapable. That such a person can exist in this world. It's just so amazing to me. She is just so amazing to me.

I do love her. For who she is, and for the hopeful idiot that she turned me into.

And, between those two emotions, and between those two very different women, I have the full range of emotion available to me.

Like I said, it's pretty cool.

This isn't really an entry.

I'd planned on writing a real entry tonight, but now I'm not so sure that either of the ideas I had are worthy of your majesties' attention.

Maybe I'll have a beer and see how I feel after that.

I didn't even watch the guys last week. Mostly because they're guys and therefore largely irrelevant to me, but also because I was busy.

Anyway, I did watch the girls sing tonight, and here's what I thought.

3/7 (Girls)

Paris: She sang a stupid song. She's awesome though. Maybe a little too sweet. (75 points)

Lisa: Some song I never heard before. Good, I guess, but I really think she can do better. (80 points)

Melissa: Hot. I love her voice this week. She also picked a perfect song for her voice. (85 points)

Kinnik: She sucks, so I fast-forwarded through her performance.

Katharine: She seemed a little full of herself this week, and she sang a stupid song. I gave her 10 bonus points for having nice tits that I somehow failed to notice before tonight. (80 points)

Ayla: Wow. I can totally imagine hearing that performance on the radio. Damn good. (85 points)

Mandissa: I fast-forwarded through her performance because I don't like her.

Kellie: Still smoldering hot. Just an average performance but I don't care because I love her so much. (75 points)

After I wrote down my notes I went back and listened to the judges comments. For the most part, the judges are wrong.

I hope.

I keep saying this. I'll say it again. Mandisa and Kinnik need to get the fuck off my TV.

1. Get dressed.
2. Drive to store to buy a soda.
3. Talk to cute girl that works at store.
4. Drive to work.
5. Walk into work.
6. Attend a meeting at work.
7. Go to the bathroom.
8. Look in mirror.
9. Notice that your shirt is on inside-out.

There's this thing that I want.

This desire started, I dunno, maybe last Wednesday or so. And it's become stronger every minute of every hour of every day since then.

I actually want one so badly that I've found myself tempted to ask for it here in this journal. I know that several of these things must exist - I only want one. I'll even settle for a copy of one.

I know that there are probably several of my readers that can get one for me. I mean local readers, not the ones scattered all over creation.

I really can't just ask though. It wouldn't be proper at all. I'm thinking that I may try to trick someone into giving me one.

Somebody here in New Albany might be, right now, reading this entry while in possession of that which I crave. If you're out there, and you've been reading me long enough, you may even be able to guess what it is that I want.

If you're out there, and you have one, why not help a guy out?

Even though I won't be using these characters in my comics, I still think they're kind of cute, and I thought I'd show all of the ones I made over the past few days.

This is me.

SassyGirl, who will finally be back from Peru on Wednesday. This is exactly what her new hairstyle looks like.

MixedSignalGirl. I was being very optimistic when I made this on the off chance that she'd actually show up in one of my comics again.

This is supposed to be LaptopGirl. See the part about optimism above and multiply times about a gazillion. Her hair is too long here, but I suppose it might have grown since the last time I saw her.

This is EwokGirl, who I work with. The hair isn't even close to her real hair.

This is HatGirl. Lovely, isn't she?

DooRagGirl has had a major haircut. This is what she looked like before. She's going to make me change this. Not so much because of the hair, but because of what she's wearing.

Okay, my instructions were as follows: ANYTHING but pink, but I usually wear black, sometimes grey, sometimes brown, sometimes blue, just never pink. I wouldn't be caught dead in pink. I fixed the hair too.

I've already mentioned that I hadn't wanted to go out Saturday night. I've already mentioned that I'd tried to go somewhere Saturday afternoon, and failed.

That's just the tip of the iceberg, as they say.

No less than five times, on Saturday - starting at about 10:00 and ending at about 1:00 - I tried to go out. The first several times I only got as far as my kitchen. I'd put my jacket on, and I'd pick up my keys, and then I'd just stand there.

After a while, I'd take my jacket off and go back to my office or to my basement or to my living room.

Eventually, I did leave my house. I got about halfway to Louisville, then I turned around and came back home.

I was in such a strange mood. I was very much aware of the futility of pretending to be a part of a world that I just didn't belong to. Not on Saturday. On Saturday night, if it hadn't been for the admittedly slim chances of (a) seeing HatGirl, and (b) being normal for a while, I would not have left my couch.

But that was Saturday.

By Sunday morning, I was more or less back to normal. Normal, as always, is a relative term. I mean normal for me.

For the most part. I thought so, anyway.

Except that I put my jacket on about ten times, and for eight of the first nine of those times I ended up just standing in my kitchen for a while before taking my jacket back off. One time I made it to the end of my driveway before I threw my truck into reverse and pulled back into my garage.

The tenth time I went and bought some groceries, which had been my plan all along.

This isn't really social anxiety, I don't think. When I'm standing in my kitchen, I'm not nervous or anxious about leaving my house.

I just don't see the point. There's nothing out there.

So I guess my strange mood hasn't left me completely.

Today would have been my 21st wedding anniversary.

This doesn't bother me at all, and it hasn't in well over a decade.

I'd take a thousand March 5ths over a single November 14th, and I'd take a billion March 5ths over a single October 9th.

I wonder if there'll ever be a date that overshadows those two.

I fucking hope not.

I'm just going to combine all this into one entry.

Friday was so damn long ago, but I'll try to describe it for those of you that actually care for whatever reason.

SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: Besides my lovely self, there's one person on Earth that knows the courage it took for me to go into Rich O's Friday night. Even though that courage was wasted, I'm still kind of proud of myself.

The place was, of course, packed as fuck. It wasn't quite standing room only though. In fact the only seat still available was the throne. This dude that looks like my cousin Robbie was there in the living room area with a bunch of people, I asked him if the throne was taken, and he said that it wasn't. So I took it.

I ordered a Founder's Dirty Bastard (30). At the time I didn't remember that I'd tried this last year, or I'd have ordered something else.

The group in the living room area consisted of the dude that looks like my cousin Robbie, a smoldering hot blonde girl, and some dipshits. I think they were dipshits because of their ages though - they may grow out of it eventually. At least they were all drinking real beer.

Oh, before I forget. The other day I came in after work and tried something I hadn't tried before:

Unibroue Maudite (10)

(draft) Quite yummy actually. This surprised me until I remember that the same brewer makes La Fin Du Monde. If I had to describe this, and I guess I do, I'd call it Newcastle on steroids.

So then this tall hot blonde girl with very short hair got up from the island and walked over towards me. She got to within about four feet before I recognized her.

It was DooRagGirl!

Man, she'd got her hair cut short! It was really a huge difference.

Anyway, I ended up giving DooRagGirl the throne and I moved over to the arm of the loveseat. The dipshits were becoming more and more dipshitty - one of them started loudly proclaiming his desire to have "anal sex with any girl, at any time."

Classy, huh? I redoubled my efforts to find better seating.

Eventually some people left the island so DooRagGirl and I moved over there and sat with CoffeeDude and InterruptingCow.

I had another beer:

North Coast PranQster (10)

(draft) A very pretty beer, hazy orange with a nice creamy head. The taste was a little sour, but in a good way. It reminded me of a good lambic more than anything else.

I had myself a couple bottles of Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier (558), then went to White Castle and came home around midnight.

Saturday, I was in a strange mood all day.

I wasn't going out at all. I'd already tried to go out in the early afternoon, but I'd ended up just turning around and coming back home.

Then, at around 6:00, I figured that going out would be a waste of time, so I decided to just stay home instead. I slept on the couch until I was awakened by HatGirl wanting to know how crowded Rich O's was. So I told her that I wasn't even there yet, but that I'd let her know.

The place was packed with strangers. I texted HatGirl that information then, a few minutes later, I texted her again and told her I was leaving.

What I ended up doing was going over to The Pub in Louisville where I had myself a couple of yummy Young's Double Chocolate Stouts (335).

Then I went back to Rich O's, hoping that the crowd would have died down a little.

It hadn't died down that much, but the seat at the end of the bar was at least open, so I sat there with my back to everyone.

I had a couple bottles of Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier, and eventually the ghost showed up and made me smile.

That's it. Another weekend gone.

I am shades of gray, snarling and clawing at the colors swirling around me.

One swatch, full of confidence, approaches too closely. After a brief but painful moment, it jerks away, but not quickly enough. Its leading edge, once a vibrant hue, is now a dead and dark and dreary gray. The color of fog on a moonless night, it wilts and it rots.

---

I am shades of gray, watching in awe all of the colors making up the world I inhabit.

I live inside a kaleidoscope, yet I am not a part of it. The colorful blobs don't even notice my existence, and for that I am grateful. I am free to observe the cacophony that surrounds me, without fear of contaminating it. Or it, me.

---

I am shades of gray, and I am alone.

---

I am shades of gray, and another swatch of color settles in beside me.

It does not put out feelers. It does not acknowledge my presence at all. It just is, existing at my side. To my left to be precise. It is but the slightest inkling of the faintest memory of the most tenuous presence, yet it is more real than anything else in this, my world.

I try to pull away, but I am too late.

--

I am shades of gray, but my left edge is tinged with color.

And that color is spreading.

I feel strange this morning. More strange than normal I mean.

I'm floating in a featureless void, and I wonder what I'm doing here. I could call out, but I know that there's nobody to hear me. I wouldn't know what to say anyway.

This isn't right. I don't belong here, in this empty place. This is not where I'm supposed to be. I'm not afraid, and I'm not sad, but I'm not entirely comfortable either. Uneasy would be the word I'm looking for.

This morning I proposed, in an email to a friend, that perhaps I'd died in my sleep during the night. Well she got the email so I guess that theory is no good.

Something happened though. I didn't just wander out here. In fact, I don't really feel as if I went anywhere. It's more like the world disappeared around me. It was there when I went to sleep last night, but now it's gone.

Last Spring I wrote this:

There is...Nothing.

Blackness and silence surround him, seep into him.

He wonders how long it has been. A minute? A day? A million years?

Even the familiar thump thump of his heart has stopped. He ponders this, and reaches his hand to his chest, but he finds that he has no hand, and that he has no chest.

He simply exists, seeing, hearing, feeling nothing.

He waits for something to happen, and wonders if he is dead.

I shouldn't be here.

Those characters take up a lot of valuable real estate.

Meanwhile, I continue to wait.

Just dazzle me.

Just be so wonderful, so astonishing and so fascinating that there's no room in me for doubt, or for fear, or for terror. Just be so bright that the only thing I can see is you. But make sure that you do it soon, before I get too complacent. For once that happens, I'll start to think. And that is where the trouble starts.

Don't give me a chance to think.

Just enchant me. Overwhelm me. I dare you.

Sure, it may be difficult. But it's not impossible.

I used to think that it was. I used to think that it was, until somebody managed to do it without even trying.

Now I just want somebody to do it again.

Somebody else.

I'm waiting.

I just might go and make South Park images of all of my friends so I can use them in my comics.

I just might.

Unless it's too hard.

Okay, I got them all.

I don't understand most of them, but I got them.

...was that a blacksmith will temper metal by repeated cycles of heating and cooling. Heated until it's glowing, then plunged into cold water, over and over and over, the metal will become stronger with each iteration.

But there is a price that the metal must pay.

It loses flexibility.

It becomes brittle.

It may shatter.

She forged me, made me stronger than I was before. But then, then she either dropped me or she flung me away from her or she simply failed to take care with where she placed me. It made no difference to me why I struck the ground when I did.

I fell, or I was dropped, or I was thrown.

And I shattered.

I never end up writing what I think I'll write.

Sometimes I get lucky and end up with something decent anyway, but not often.

The thoughts are there, running around inside me, but they flee when I try to capture them. They hide behind trivia and inane bullshit, and they snicker among themselves about how easily they evade me.

Only the weakest among them are ever at risk.

Sometimes I manage to catch one of these lesser thoughts. Then I'll dissect it and expose its innards to the world. And its brethren watch in horror from their hiding places, and they stop their snickering, for a while at least.

It's only a matter of time.

They can't hide from me forever.

I suppose that I haven't been completely honest with myself.

I mean, I haven't really been lying, but I haven't quite told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth either.

The thing is, everything was not wine and roses. Or, to put it into words to which I can better relate, everything was not beer and jasmine.

There were good times, certainly. But for every time I smiled, there was another time when I frowned. For every time I laughed, there was another time when I fought back tears.

Things were hot then cold, or cold then hot. Never warm. Never comfortable enough that I could just kick off my shoes and relax.

Hope would be overshadowed by fear would be trumped by joy would be shattered by disappointment.

Nothing ever lasted.

Except this.

I suppose that, since I've been posting American Idol reports lately, it will come as no big surprise to any of you that I'm a bit of a reality show junkie.

One of my all-time favorite reality shows, surpassing even Survivor, is The Amazing Race.

The 9th season or so started tonight, and I settled down to watch. After, of course, My TiVo had captured enough of it so that I could skip past the commercials. I love my TiVo.

Anyway.

For the past few seasons, I've caught myself, more times than I can count, imagining myself as part of a team competing in the show. But not for the money, and not for the adventure. Nope, I imagine it for the company.

The thought of being with that special person for the weeks that the race takes to complete, to get to know her as she gets to know me, to end our race with something better than any amount of money or pseudo reality show fame could ever buy - that's what I find myself imagining.

And it's always been the same (you get one guess) person, my imaginary partner in The Amazing Race.

Until tonight.

Because tonight, tonight I tried to imagine us together, flying over the streets of Sao Paolo, Brazil. I tried to imagine us together, and it just didn't work.

Her image didn't fit in my head. Not in that context anyway. So my imagination kept searching until it found someone that did fit. Someone else.

This was, fitting for the show I suppose, amazing to me.

I had a similar experience last Summer, and it surprised me then just as it surprised me tonight. Actually, surprised is too weak of a word. How about astonished?

Yeah, that's better. As-ton-ished.

Tonight's imaginary teammate was a different girl than the one I imagined last August. But now, as then, it's not important who it was. The simple and inescapable fact that it was anyone besides you know who is just hugely important. Incredibly telling. Massively phenomenal. Really Fucking Cool. I cannot stress this enough.

And you know what makes it even better?

Do you?

Okay, fine. I'll tell you.

Back in August, the last time I caught myself in a situation like this, I was actively fighting, valiantly trying to control my feelings for her. August, in fact, was just before I bottled those feelings up completely out of the fear that they could not be controlled, only contained, and that they were slowly but surely killing me.

But now, for various reasons, now I'm letting them flow freely again.

I'm letting them flow, and I'm letting them wash over me and through me, and I'm letting them pretty much have their way with me.

I'm letting them control me, as much as they can, but that control has weakened. Weakened to the point where I can imagine another pretty girl sitting beside me in that helicopter. Who knows? Maybe, eventually, I'll be able to imagine some other girl beside me in some other contexts. Maybe, eventually, I'll be able to imagine some other girl that, oddly enough, isn't completely wrong for me. Maybe, eventually, I'll even - get this - act upon my imaginary thoughts in hopes of bringing them to fruition.

Wouldn't that be something?