There was just the cutest girl at Rich O's last night.

Now, I know that sometimes women object to being called girls. At least the ones who are bitches do. But this girl, this girl last night was so young, and so cute, that the word girl was a perfect fit. Plus, as it turned out, she wasn't a bitch, so I'm sure she won't mind.

This girl was allegedly 21-years-old. I didn't ask for ID, though. And neither did anyone else as far as I could tell. If she'd been carded, revealed to be underage, and subsequently asked to leave, I'm sure there'd have been a riot. Incited by me. And nobody wants to deal with that. Friday nights are busy enough.

Meanwhile, I have age spots that are older than this girl. Oh well.

The point I was going to make was that she reminded me of the sister of my sister's ex-husband. Joyce was equally cute, and almost as young, the last time I saw her. Which was years ago. I think she's married now. Oh well.

Rich O's was pretty packed when I arrived, but I was able to grab a seat at the island with MusicalYuppieDude and TremensGirl and some PBDs. I'd been planning to have myself a Mad Bitch, but it had blown, so I had an Urthel Samaranth Quadrium (92).

I listened to the PBDs talk about various crap. I joined in the conversation a few times, but mostly I just listened to everyone else. And looked at the cute girl sitting on the loveseat.

My next beer was going to be a Bell's Sparkling Ale, which I remember quite fondly from the one time I had it back in December 2005. But that was blown too. Shit! I should have had it first. Oh well.

So I had myself a Left Hand Snow Bound (92).

Lately, I've been quite remiss in describing new beers here. I'm still putting my reviews into my official beer list, but failing to transcribe those reviews into this journal.

I will try to get back on-track. At least this once.

Left Hand Snow Bound

(draft) Clear dark copper in color. Good head and lacing. Strong spice and malt aroma and flavor. Mouthfeel seemed a little watery at first, but it seemed to thicken as the glass emptied. Flavor is nutmeg and cinnamon and a touch of citrus. A lingering slightly hoppy finish. A yummy beer.

Once the island conversation shifted from fun topics, like one person's whore grandmother, to divisive political topics, I picked up my shit and moved over to the sofa and talked to those people for a while. I finished my Snow Bound and ordered a bottle of Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier, but only drank half the bottle (1757). That damn Quadrium had been too ambitious a beginning, I guess.

One chick came in to smoke a cigarette and told me that I looked like I was 19. So she was clearly drunk. I mean, I've been accused, many times, of looking younger than my years, but people usually guess me to be in my early 30s. Not my fucking late teens.

I did get to talk to the cute girl for a while. That's how I found out she wasn't a bitch. But then she and her friends left and some other strangers filled in the empty spaces. I got bored and went to White Castle and then came home.

Tonight, for a few minutes, I found myself thinking about whores, and how much I hate them.

I mean, they really are worthless human beings. Much worse than sluts.

But I also got to thinking, what's the difference between a whore and a slut? Have I ever really differentiated the two in my writings?

Because I also dislike sluts. Just not as much.

Well, I know the answer to that question. At least, I know the difference between my own definitions of those words.

It's pretty simple actually. It's the same as the difference between murder and manslaughter.

Intent to cause harm to another person.

I'm not bitter, though.

I just hate whores.

I ran into myself today, after work. Talk about a surprise! But there I was. Nestled between satisfaction and ecstasy, resting comfortably between unease and misery, I found myself.

It was such an easy thing, an effortless thing, to lose myself the way I did so many months ago. Finding myself again wasn't nearly so easy. It was actually impossible for a very long time. A very very long time.

In fact, I'd stopped looking. I'd given up. I'd almost forgot that I even existed. Until today, after work.

The thing is - this is a choice for me now. It was never a choice before. I can't even say I'm bottling things up, like I said a year and a half ago. Now, I can do what I want. Think what I want. Remember what I want. There's no more constant pressure pushing at my insides. If I don't want to think about her, well then I don't think about her. Simple as that.

And, when I want to think about her, I do. Like today, after work.

Just enough to make me laugh and cry at the same time.

I found myself today, after work, and we wept and laughed together.

It was good.

I've missed me.

Almost as much as I've missed her.

...having a bad case of the munchies, and then remembering that you have a brand-new bag of potato chips in your kitchen.

Just two things about tonight's Lost episode.

1. That chick was hot.

2. Being buried alive would suck.

This is just a short story about Saturday night. I'm only writing it because I'm waiting for Lost to get tivoed.

Anyway, I was driving from Louisville over to Rich O's. I was on I-265, going maybe 60 or so, and a black Trans Am flew by me. He must have been going at least 90.

He also had a taillight out.

So, to quickly review: He was going at least 90, on a Saturday night, in a Trans Am, with a taillight out.

Brilliant, right? I mean, except for the burned-out taillight, which wasn't brilliant at all.

At the exit for Grant Line road, TransAmDude and I both got stuck at the light. I was in the right turn lane, he was in the other lane.

I looked over at his car. The window was down. It was a warm night.

So I rolled down my own window, and I hollered over at him, "Hey! You've got a taillight out!"

'Cause I'm a good Samaritan and shit.

The guy looked over at me and kinda shook his head or something, like maybe he couldn't hear me.

So I hollered even louder, "YOU'VE GOT A TAILLIGHT OUT!"

The light turned green, and TransAmDude gave me the finger and yelled, "Fuck off!" and drove away.

Wouldn't giving someone the finger and telling them to fuck off, wouldn't that be redundant?

Just trying to get this out of the way so I can get some fucking sleep.

LaKisha: She was very wavery. Is that a word? It should be, because that's what she was. (65 points)

Chris S: A decent job, but he didn't sound like the Chris I'm used to hearing: (60 points)

Gina: Great song. Great performance. Take the title from LaKisha's wavery grasp and give it to Gina. Do it now! (100 points)

Sanjaya: I didn't listen because he sucks. I did, however, take off eighteen billion points for the stupid hairstyle. (negative 18,000,000,000 points)

Haley: Stupid song. Performance was way too timid. Nice voice, but I didn't care. Her hair looked great though. (70 points)

Phil: Wow, pretty damn good. I get the feeling that he's been singing this song for years. His best performance, by far. (90 points)

Melinda: Some song I never heard of. Fantastic job. She chose to sing this week instead of growl. Good choice. (95 points)

Blake: A good, but boring, performance. Very safe. The judges all want to fellate him. (70 points)

Jordin: Stupid song. Awkward performance. Yuck. (40 points)

Chris R: Great song. Performance was very good at times, and dreadfully flat at others, disappointing overall. (45 points)

I'm easily amused. Found this at kottke.org.

This is the type of fame for which Nugget is destined. I'm sure of it.

Brown. Her eyes are brown.

That wouldn't have been my guess.

I'd have guessed hazel.

This first one was a week ago Friday. I was with NotHideousGirl and I tried on her glasses. So this blurry images is probably what she saw when she looked at me. Both because she'd been drinking and because I had her glasses on.

This one we took this past Friday night. I then sent it to HatGirl, hoping that it would inspire her to show up and give me someone who didn't hate all men to talk to. My plan didn't work.

Friday, I was in the best mood. I'd had the most amazing dream.

It was some kind of lavish party at the home of one of the PBDs. People were scattered around in their little cliques. I found myself wandering from group to group. Never really fitting in. Always trying to join conversations too late. I'd just arrived at the party, and I was already looking for an escape.

There were some guys out in the field. I didn't recognize them. They were towing people around behind a motorcycle. Not for anyone else's enjoyment, but for their own sick fun. The people who'd already been towed were in a bloody group off to the side, shaking and sobbing.

The motorcycle guys asked me if I wanted to be towed. They laughed amongst themselves. I shook my head and I flipped them off and I moved away.

Then I saw her.

I froze.

She was talking to some people I didn't know. She'd just arrived herself. I overheard her say that she was going to go see what the motorcycle guys were up to, and I saw her turn in their direction. In my direction.

She saw me, and she smiled.

I grabbed her arm, and I told her what the motorcycle guys were doing. I asked her to stay away from them, to stay with me.

She smiled again, and she took my hand, and we went back into the house and got some beer.

We sat together on the floor in the corner of the basement. For hours and hours we touched and we whispered and we leaned against each other as we watched all of the PBDs making drunken fools out of themselves. We were the way we used to be, only better. We were the way we might have been, if only.

If only.

As the night wore on the injured people had been making their ways from the field to the house. She thanked me for saving her from a terrible night, and I thanked her for saving me from a meaningless life.

I never really knew what had happened, or even how I found out about it. The dream started too late for those details to be revealed.

There were hundreds of people there. Mostly strangers to me. People from her new life, I figured. Except for some of her friends from Rich O's, I didn't know anyone.

But they all knew me. Or they knew about me. When I opened the door, they went completely silent.

I'd arrived late, like I always do in my dreams. But the crowd moved aside for me. They turned their back on me. Not from disrespect, but to give me the privacy that they knew I needed. Like prisoners turning their backs while their cellmates take a shit. Or so I've heard.

I couldn't believe it. I stood in the doorway, and I estimated the distance. About twenty yards. Maybe thirty paces. Thirty paces, and it would all be over.

So I dropped to my hands and knees, and I crawled. I needed it to hurt, and I needed to make it last as long as possible. Delay the inevitable as long as I could.

Plus, down on the floor like that, I couldn't see. Just the carpet in front of me, and the backs of the people around me. And, when I was stupid and forgetful, when I raised my eyes, a wooden box on a platform draped in red.

When I reached the coffin, I tried to make myself wake up. I tried very hard to make myself wake up. But it didn't work. So I lied down on the floor, and I wept and I waited for the dream to end on its own.

My sister came up behind me, and stroked my hair, and said soothing words. And, when I was ready, she helped me get to my feet. I stood up, and I looked into the coffin.

She was as beautiful as ever. So peaceful. I envied her.

I completely forgot!

But then I just now remembered!

Friday, I was sitting in the HR Block office waiting for my tax appointment, and SassyGirl called!

Yay!

She and JauntyGirl are doing fine. They're somewhere down South. Maybe Georgia? And they're walking The Appalachian Trail.

Also SassyGirl told me that she'd shaved her head and that, since her nickname was born because of her hair, that I should come up with a new nickname for her.

I told her that I'd think about it.

It was good to hear from her.

I hate how I've been putting off my beer reports lately. I've been putting them off for so long that I never get around to writing them. And then if I do decide to write them, they end up being a gazillion lines long.

Like this one will probably be. Oh well, can't be helped. I need these things to keep track of my own comings and goings. Like I don't have a fucking clue what I did last Saturday night.

Let's see. Friday night I went to this stupid Mac's place again to listen to NotHideousGirl sing karaoke. I had a couple Newcastles (3944) and a couple Blue Moons (448). All were good, but they were about the only things good about the night. I couldn't hear NotHideousGirl sing at all. I don't know if it was her, or if it was the noise in the place, or if it was the karaoke sound system being messed-up. I could hear the other singers, the ones who sucked, just fine though. So it was probably that NotHideousGirl sang too softly.

Then the entire night started to take on a sour note because women are weird and often mean. Plus, WeirdGirl started drunk-dialing me. The calls started out angry and, over the course of about a half-dozen calls, ended up being sad. Since the situation at Mac's had been rapidly deteriorating for an hour or so anyway, I left there and went to talk to WeirdGirl. I think we're okay now. She'd been hearing rumors and making assumptions. I straightened her out. The truth didn't exactly make her happy, but it wasn't nearly as bad as what she'd been thinking.

Anyway.

Saturday evening my friend Eric called to see what I was doing. It was his birthday, and he figured he'd be out later. So that was cool. It promised to distract me from the panic attack I was having, wondering if MixedSignalGirl was going to call about her CD.

I left home at about 6:00, and went over to Louisville. I went to The Pub and had a Newcastle (3964) and some cold fries and nuclear-hot chicken tenders. The place was really packed, and I got claustrophobic, so I didn't stay. I stopped by Hard Rock and talked to CoolHairGirl for a few seconds, but that place was packed with kids, so I went to Rich O's at 8:00 or so.

I was in a pretty shitty mood until I got to Rich O's. My mood got a lot better when I saw that TeamHotness was sitting out front. They always make a big deal out of seeing me because I'm so awesome.

Rich O's proper was full of mostly strangers, but the throne was open so I sat there and ordered an Urthel Samaranth Quadrium (56). I love that beer. Tried to talk to some of the weird people around me, but I didn't really have any luck until this one hot girl came in and sat on the arm of the loveseat. Our proximity pretty much required that we talk, so we did. I'll call her BBCGirl. She's nice.

At about the time I started my third Quadrium (76) things started happening at a rapid pace. OddlyFamiliarGirl came in and I talked to her for a bit. I also, as promised, put in a good word for Roger to her. I think my exact words were, "Roger says to put in a good word for him if I see you so, Yay Roger!"

I made sure to raise my hands in the air to add emphasis.

OddlyFamiliarGirl confessed to reading my journal, so that was weird. Hi, OddlyFamiliarGirl!

Then TeamHotness came into Rich O's proper and crammed in next to me and, for half of the team, on top of me. I really like those two, and I wish they'd come in more often.

Then, surprise!

HatGirl!

Yay!

She was a little grouchy because of the crowd I guess, but grouchy HatGirl is still a zillion times better than no HatGirl. LuckyFucker was with her of course, and this time he seemed to be the one in a decent mood. Wonders never cease. We three stood in the middle of the room for a bit, but when a couple of strangers finally left the sofa we moved back to that area. Then TeamHotness came in again and reminded me that I'm awesome.

Then my friend Eric showed up, and I made everyone sing Happy Birthday to him. I don't think he cried, but I'm sure he thought it was a nice thing to do.

There were no more seats available in the living room area, so Eric and I went up and sat at the island. HatGirl joined us there, and we just talked about various fluff for the next hour or so. Once HatGirl and LuckyFucker left, WomanRepellant joined us for a while.

I ended up drinking the rest of HatGirl's Quadrium (82). I think it was too strong for her. But, Yay for free beer!

Eventually, WomanRepellant left. Everyone left actually. Eric and I stayed and talked until the bartender kicked us out. Then I went to White Castle and then came home.

When I got home, I was still excited that I'd got to see HatGirl, so that's what the previous entry was for. Just letting off some extra steam.

Yay!

Didn't want to call you or text you or email you. Didn't want to freak you out, not even for a second.

But I know you'll read this.

It turns out that I've got your 25 Romantic Classics CD here. Just the CD - I couldn't find the box for it.

Please let me know how and when you'd like it returned. Feel free to call if you want. I won't freak out.

Sidelong glances that burn into me.

I could tell you about every freckle on her skin, but I couldn't tell you what color her eyes are.

My gaze was always too wide with her. My focus, too unfocused.

I saw her as a distraction from a distraction from a distraction, and I questioned her worthiness for even that.

I should have looked into her eyes. Then I would have had no questions.

And now questions are all that I have.

...most of the emails being sent to be are bouncing.

In fact, RockGirl tried to send me an email and it bounced back to her saying I didn't even exist.

Well I'm pretty sure that I exist, so I called my hosting company.

They grudgingly admitted that I might be having possible problems with email. Maybe.

They have also agreed to look into it.

UPDATE: Looks like I exist again. Whew!

So I bought NotHideousGirl a t-shirt from the Hard Rock in Indianapolis on Sunday night.

I then lugged that thing all the way home.

I then lugged it to work yesterday, then to The Pub during lunch.

NotHideousGirl didn't show yesterday, so I lugged it back to work and then back home.

Today I lugged it back to work, then back to The Pub at lunch.

At 12:20 or so, I figured that NotHideousGirl was going to be a no-show again.

It is, believe or not, quite difficult to look cool and carry a bright pink shirt around at the same time. So I came up with a new plan.

Instead of continuing to lug that t-shirt all over the place for a girl who, according to all available evidence, I was never going to see again as long as I lived, I decided that I'd carry the t-shirt another way.

Specifically, I'd wad it up and stuff it into the front of my pants.

That way, see, I could have my arms free for whatever random arm-requiring opportunities might arise. Plus, the new bulge in my pants would be sure to garner some long-overdue attention from the women of Louisville.

I figured that I'd change tactics. I'd make the t-shirt available to the first attractive woman who wanted it, but - and this is the fun part - I'd make her dive in and get it herself.

It was a brilliant plan, if I do say so myself. And I do.

But noooooooooooooooo!

Just about when the grin spreading across my face had reached its maximum evilness, NotHideousGirl showed up.

It was good to see her. Even though it meant the end of my evil/brilliant plan. I'm sure that I'll come up with other plans. Someday. Maybe.

Anyway, I gave NotHideousGirl her t-shirt, and we both laughed at the thought of her wearing pink, like an actual girl.

Then I moved on to more serious business.

You may remember that I tried, Sunday night during the drunk-dialing/drunk-answering fiasco, to apologize to NotHideousGirl for something I'd failed to do Friday night.

Well, today at lunch I apologized again.

And she said that, had I done that thing which I was apologizing for not doing, then she would have beaten the shit out of me.

So, anyway, whew!

Haley: Wow. Nice legs. Nice tits. Nice ass. Nice Smile. I think she sang something. (70 points)

Chris R: I've always liked that song. Chris didn't mangle it too badly. (75 points)

Stephanie: Another great song. I thought she oversang it. Still good though. (71 points)

Blake: He sucks. I took off a million points for the beat box crap. (negative 999,970 points)

LaKisha: She picked the wrong song. I'm still a huge fan, but tonight she sucked. (35 points)

Phil: Stupid song. Bad karaoke performance. (55 points)

Jordin: Strange song, but she did great. I adore Jordin now. (95 points)

Sanjaya: I muted my TV because he sucks. They showed one audience girl who was crying because he was so bad. Then they made her hug him. She's probably killed herself by now. That's a shame.

Gina: Stupid song. Performance was frantic and chaotic. Not very good, dawg. (35 points)

Chris S: Good song. Perfect tone and control. I thought this was his best yet. (90 points)

Melinda: Some weird song nobody ever heard of before. She growled her way through it. I didn't like it much. (55 points)

All in all, a pretty pathetic night.

So Sunday night, when I was about three beers deep into my evening, I drunk-dialed NotHideousGirl from the Hard Rock.

It was mostly just to see if she was feeling better than she'd been feeling Friday night.

Mostly.

I talked to her briefly. Asked her if she was feeling better. Asked her for her t-shirt size because I was about to buy her a pink Hard Rock t-shirt.

Pink!

That's hilarious, if you know NotHideousGirl.

I also apologized to her for something I didn't do on Friday. I kinda feel like I dropped the ball then. She took my apology with the grace and confusion that were to be expected.

Okay, then tonight I talked to her for a bit. Told her that I had her shirt, and that I was holding it hostage until she agreed to have lunch with me and not be freaked out over my semi-drunken apology.

She didn't know what the fuck I was talking about.

See, I'd drunk-dialed her Sunday night, but she'd drunk-answered me.

So now, I've got to go through the whole apology again.

I'll do it during lunch, when I know she's sober.

I've got so much to catch up on here. It's too much to try to tackle it all in one entry. For me to write it, and certainly for anyone to read the thing.

So I'll just do one subject at a time.

Back in the Fall, BadPickleGirl stole two of my favorite beer glasses. My Delirium Tremens glass, which had great sentimental value because its mate is with LaptopGirl, and my Gulden Draak glass, which was just a cool glass. Or maybe it was a Corsendonk Christmas Ale glass. Either way, cool glass.

Okay, so maybe saying she stole the things is stretching the truth a bit. How about if I say she used her feminine wiles to distract and hypnotize me, and thus caused me to leave those glasses at her house?

That's a little better. And, if you add the fact that she then dumped me so brutally that I became afraid to speak to her, let alone ask for my property back, well maybe that's a little more realistic.

Okay, so maybe she didn't brutally dump me. Maybe there was nothing to dump. Maybe I don't know what the fuck happened with her and/or us. What I do know is that (a) She stopped all contact with me, and (b) She still has my beer glasses.

Well, I'm nothing if not a problem solver.

My first, and most obvious choice, would be to be a man. To call BadPickleGirl and ask, nay, demand, that she return my beer glasses. And maybe that she sleep with me to make up for some of my pain and suffering.

I went in a different direction.

I bought some new glasses to replace the old ones.

I bought a new Delirium Tremens glass a couple of weeks ago, and I bought a new Gulden Draak glass this evening.

So, ha ha! That'll teach her. Or not.

When I came in, WeirdGirl was at the other end of the room. But of course I saw her right away.

I stuck my hand up and smiled at her. If, I figured, things were going to be weird between us, now would be the time to find out.

She stuck her tongue out at me.

So I did the exaggerated pouty lower lip thing.

She did it back to me.

Then after I sat at the bar she came and said "Hi" and asked how I was.

I said I was fine.

She said she was too.

So that was exciting I guess.

One of the more obvious requirements for any person calling themselves a writer is also, at times, one of the most vexing. And, to be clear, blogging is writing. It just writing without any of those pesky assumptions of accuracy, or that annoying expectation of eloquence.

To be a writer, one must write.

Even if there seems to be nothing worth writing about, bloggers still have to come up with something, anything, on a fairly regular basis. Even if it's stupid.

Even if privacy concerns would demand complete silence, bloggers too often feel compelled to at least touch upon whatever, um, touchy subject is currently foremost in their head. So they'll often resort to crypticism and metaphors and little inside-jokes and innuendos. Or maybe they'll write about stupid and boring things and just pretend that the real topic doesn't even exist.

Such as I'm about to do right now.

See, there is something on my mind right now. A herd of related somethings, actually. And that herd has certainly beaten a path through my brain these past few days.

But, for now, I'm going to pretend that nothing unusual is happening. Maybe if I ignore it, it'll go away.

Anyway, I am incredibly, inexplicably, still hung-over from Sunday night.

It's not that I drank a lot of beer Sunday night. Certainly no more than what is normal for me on any decent weekend night. I may be wrong, but I'd even guess that I had quite a bit less than normal.

Usually this is about where I'd start to list the beers that I had, but right now it seems too daunting a task. To actually open my notebook and transcribe my beer reviews. Ugh, the sound of rustling paper just might kill me. And I might like it.

I'm pretty sure that what I'd find in my notebook would be that I didn't drink a lot of beer. Nope, what I did was drink a little bit of a lot of different beers.

And that, apparently, was bad.

I'm sure I'll get to the specifics in a later entry.

If I live through this hangover.

I was just about going to write something about the last few nights, but I changed my mind.

Anything I might write would be either too boring or too cryptic.

Anyway, now I'm driving up to Indianapolis. Just for the night. I'll be coming home tomorrow.

Maybe the unfamiliar surroundings will stir my creative juices.

So I'm back on the market now. Not that I was ever really off the market. Not officially. I just kinda sorta felt like being exclusive. You know, just in case.

This morning I went and met WeirdGirl at work, and told her that I didn't think we should see each other anymore.

She looked surprised for a second, then smiled and said, "That's fine."

I think that those two words pretty much sum up her entire personality. The girl's never been hurt, never had to climb her way out of anything, especially not a pit of despair. And she certainly wasn't about to fall into one over me.

I asked her if she wanted to know why, and she said, "Not really. It doesn't matter. It's not like we were going to get married or anything."

So that was painless.

Now all I've got to deal with is the possibility that I've turned into an asshole. I've been dealing with that possibility for years. You'd think I'd be better at it by now.

"Perfectly understandable," people would say.

"Absolutely normal," they might add.

"Almost to be expected, even," some would chime in.

"Well, fuck that," I'd answer.

Not understandable for me. Not normal for me. And certainly not fucking expected of me, by me.

Now, tomorrow I've got to go do something. Not a big deal really. I mean, the doing of the thing won't be a big deal. But the reason for it, the reason for it pisses me off.

I piss me off.

She'll be fine. She will probably tell me that it's understandable. That I'm normal. She might even say that she expected this.

She'll let me off easy. But I won't.

I'd kick my own ass, if only I could bend that way.

I found this Face Transformer site that lets you do shit to pictures. Here are some of the manglings it came up with for my picture:

So now I'm off until Monday, so yay!

I put the word "so" in that sentence twice, didn't I?

I'm not going back and change it though. I mean, it's all the way up there.

Today was a decent day. Especially if you like cold horizontal rain first thing in the morning. And don't we all?

Apparently, some local college team participated in some kind of sporting event this afternoon. So everyone at work disappeared for three hours. Slackers. I guess the home team won, because there was much hooting and hollering. I hope they lose soon so everyone can get back to work.

Let's see, what else? Had lunch with NotHideousGirl. Spent a lot of my company's money. Paid my satelite and cable bills. Fed my cats. Took a shit.

I didn't say this would be an exciting entry.

Work really dragged today. Spent most of the day waiting for input from any of several directions. Input that never arrived. To make things worse, all day I had the sneaking suspicion that it was really Thursday, and that the universe had somehow managed to stick an extra Wednesday into the week just to fuck with me.

Lunch was okay. I talked to WeirdGirl for a bit, but not too much, as she was working. I'm not quite sure what's the deal with her/me/us, and I'm not going to ask. I'm thinking that maybe she should ask me. Also, I'd thought that NotHideousGirl was going to join me, She'd emailed me to say she was on her way, but then about 15 minutes later she reneged. Something about a heretofore unknown meeting where she works. Oh, well.

It was fucking stormy this afternoon. I hated having to be at work during that. I'd much rather have been at my house with a good beer watching the lightning. It would have been a nice way to spend a sneaky extra Wednesday.

Monday I have to be in Indianapolis first thing. So I'm thinking about driving up there Sunday and just spending the night. Actually I'm thinking about driving up there Saturday. But don't tell anyone.

Lately, more often than not, I find myself getting pissed when I think about you know who and you know who else.

(SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: I realize that Americans assign a different meaning to the word pissed than do people from most other English-speaking cultures. In this entry, I'm using the word in its American sense. In this entry, the word pissed means angry. It doesn't mean drunk.)

Not depressed or sad or melancholy or whatever the fuck other words your thesaurus has in it.

Pissed.

At myself.

I managed to completely fuck over two wonderful relationships. One because I wanted too much, too soon and for no apparent reason. And the other because I didn't want enough until it was too late.

So what if I tried my best to be a good person?

So what if I had good intentions?

Good intentions can suck my dick.

Okay, now we're down to the final twelve. This is usually the part where I start to lose interest. Some shitty singer will keep advancing week after week, and one or more of my favorites will be eliminated, and I'll stop watching.

This year, I expect that the shitty singer in question will be that Sanjaya fucker. I hope I'm wrong.

Anyway, this week they sang Diana Ross songs. Gee, do you think the producers might have some favorites in mind already? Maybe some black women? Time will tell.

Brandon: Nothing really terrible, but he's just so damn boring. Plus, how do you forget the words to a song that's been famous for forty years? (30 points)

Melinda: She always manages to make whatever song she sings seem like the perfect song for her. She's an incredible talent. (100 points)

Chris S: Great song. He seemed to be drifting in and out of tune a lot. I usually really like Chris, but not this week. I didn't hate it nearly as much as the judges did. (65 points)

Gina: I like her hair. I don't like her song choice. She kinda seemed like she was singing with a gun to her head. She's still better than most though. (80 points)

Sanjaya: I didn't listen because he sucks. Please get him off my TV. (0 points)

Haley: She looks beautiful, and she picked a great song. She sang well. She forgot some words, but I'm inclined to forgive her because I'm so nice. (80 points)

Phil: Started out really flat, but finished strong. I like Phil, but I fear that I've already heard his best performance, and it's not good enough. (75 points)

LaKisha: What a stupid song. She did the best she could with it, I suppose. She sang like she was under restraint or something. Zzzzzzzzz. The judges loved it, so I may be wrong. (40 points)

Blake: Please, get this fucker off my TV. (negative 215 points)

Stephanie: Good song. Performance was decent, but a little boring and predictable. (71 points)

Chris R: Sang through his nose. He sucks. (25 points)

Jordin: Stupid Disney song, but she nailed it. I took off three points for the stupid song choice, but otherwise perfect. I think I adore Jordin now. (97 points)

Okay, if Sanjaya and Blake aren't voted out this week, then the viewers are stupid.

Just got back from the store, where I purchased the following:

- Two pounds of ground chuck
- Two boxes of taco shells
- Two packs of finely shredded cheese
- Two packets of taco seasoning mix
- One bottle of shampoo

Okay, so the young cutie running the checkout scanned all this stuff through and, in a leap of deductive reasoning that would have made Arthur Conan Doyle proud, asked, "Are you making tacos?"

Now, as blown away by her intelligence as by her beauty, I nonetheless managed to regain some of my composure. She was a real treasure, this girl. And one I couldn't let get away.

"Wow," I stammered. "Beuty and brains? Where have yo bee all my life?"

Yes, I actually spoke with typos. I was that unsettled.

The beautiful genius blushed and said, "I've been right here since 5:00. You're not going to put the shampoo in the tacos, are you? I never heard of that."

Sunday, during lunch, I wished I could draw. I'd have drawn us. Except we'd have been the only ones who knew it was us. Me because I drew the thing, and you because I'd tell you.

I was wishing that I could draw a couple of railroad tracks, starting out far apart but converging and running parallel in the middle of the picture. Farther away towards the hazy horizon, I'd have drawn a man and a woman. One on each of the tracks. They'd be walking in the same direction, at least for the moment, but still not quite walking together.

And they'd have their hands outstretched towards each other, but they couldn't quite reach.

But I can't draw, and I know I can't draw, so I didn't even try.

Besides, I don't think I like the railroad track visual anyway. It seems to me that it implies fate, and I don't believe in that. We're not on tracks. If we are, then what's the point of any of this?

I like to think that it's not fate that steers us. That it's much more random than that. Faced with millions of choices and opportunities during our lives, we choose our own paths. Right or wrong, it's up to us.

Sometimes, to be sure, inertia takes over for a while, and our choices seem to dwindle, but I think that's as close to fate as we get.

To me, the concept of fate is a crutch. An excuse for the mistakes that people make, and justification for the bad things that life seems to throw our way. After all, saying, "It was meant to happen that way" is a lot easier than admitting, "Boy, I sure fucked that up. My bad."

I forget where I was going with this.

Oh yeah, wherever I wanted to go.

It's recently come to my attention that I write boring stuff. Especially when it comes to my beer reports. There are, in fact, surprisingly few people who care what I drink when I go to the bar. And even fewer care about where I sit, or who I talk to while I'm there.

So I'll try to be less boring. But I can't make any promises.

Saturday night at Rich O's wasn't nearly as bad as I'd feared. The Daytonians who usually overrun the place on the first Saturday of Gravity Head were, apparently, diverted to Columbus. At least most of them were. Only a half-dozen or so made it here to New Albany and, as luck would have it, they were the polite and charming half-dozen.

So that was nice.

Let's see, my first beer was an Avery The Beast (22), and my next two were Koningshoeven Quads (376).

MusicalYuppieDude was on the rag over something or other. Probably some chick, they're all trouble. Too bad they control the world's pussy supply.

I found out that WomanRepellant's mom passed away last weekend. That really sucks. They were quite close, and he'll get my full condolences when I run into him again.

Oh yeah, this one dude ordered, I shit you not, an NABC Community Dark. This is an odd enough thing to do during Gravity Head, but get this - he ordered the thing with a fucking lemon wedge. The obvious yet unstated request - that the bartender also spooge into the guy's glass - was not granted. And for that I'm grateful. Nobody wants to see that. Except for LemonWedgeGuy I guess.

Anyway, as I hinted at a couple of entries ago, when I left Rich O's I went over to see WeirdGirl. I've changed her nickname because, well, because she's weird. I mean, two weeks ago when she found out how old I am, she basically accused me of being a child rapist. Now I guess it's okay. She says it doesn't bother her. I think maybe she gets off on it. Or maybe she figures I'll die in the throes of passion and she'll inherit my kingdom.

Sunday morning I didn't feel like going home. So I decided to go for a drive. I asked WeirdGirl if she wanted to go, but she declined. Fine with me. I needed to do some soul-searching anyway. Needed to try to find myself as I seem to have gotten lost lately.

Well I drove all the way to St. Louis and back, and I never did find myself. I'm a slippery bastard I guess.

I should have written this entry when I got home last night, but instead I wrote an email to RockGirl and, by the time I finished that, I was too tired.

So now I've got to try to go by memory. There was a lot of stuff. I'm sure I'll leave something important out. As an excuse I offer up the indisputable fact that I'm old.

Anyway, last night was the start of Gravity Head 2007, which is the annual Rich O's beer festival featuring high gravity (as in high alcohol) beers. The first weekend of Gravity Head is typically the busiest time of the year at Rich O's.

I'd planned to go there at my more-or-less regular time, like maybe 8:00. But when I was on my way home from work my sister Dina called and said that she was probably going there because she was bored. So I stopped by my house just long enough to change clothes and do a little straightening up, then I went to Rich O's. I got there at 6:30 or so.

I parked on Mars, and to help kill some time during the trek from my parking spot to Rich O's, I called SassyGirl and told her that I'd arrived early.

Inside, it was of course crowded as fuck. The special people section was full of PBDs, and the loser area and the front area were all full of strangers. Inside Rich O's proper, it was packed as well, but not as bad as I'd feared. It wasn't quite standing room only.

Dina was sitting on the loveseat talking to GlassesGirl. I sat on the coffee table and ordered my first beer. Koningshoeven Quadrupel has recently become one of my all-time favorites, and this was the first time I'd seen it on tap. So of course that's what I had first (356).

Then this one chick left the kiddie table so I moved over there. TallLady was in the throne, so I talked to her and to Dina and GlassesGirl. The chick who's seat I'd taken came back and we talked for a bit as well.

Some strangers left the sofa at about the time that SassyGirl and JauntyGirl and SassyBoy arrived, and they sat there. TallLady left the throne, so I sat there. Dina's husband Kenny had also arrived by that time. My second beer was a new one for me.

Kasteelbier du Chateau Triple Blonde (10)

(draft) Hazy dark ruby-colored. Minimal head. Mild fruity aroma. A smooth and creamy mouthfeel and flavor, with a hint of an alcohol bite at the end. Damn good.

HatGirl!

Yay!

First thing I had to do was introduce Dina to HatGirl. So now Dina can stop worrying that I'd just conjured HatGirl up in my imagination. As unlikely as it may seem, she's real.

Let's see, at one point I got a weird picturemail of some meat from NotHideousGirl. What was even more strange was that when I went to reply, I got FutureDude's cellphone instead. FutureDude checked his phone, and he'd certainly not sent me any meat pictures, or any other pictures. So that was very strange, and eventually I'll talk to NotHideousGirl and asked her (a) What's with the picture of the meat? and (b) How'd she do that?

My third beer was another new one for me.

Schmaltz HeBrew Genesis 10:10 (10)

(draft) A very nice surprise. Dark clear amber. Minimal head. No detectable aroma. The yummy malty and fruity flavor came out of nowhere. There are supposed to be citrus adjuncts but I couldn't detect them at all.

One time I went outside to make a phone call, but HatGirl followed me and I ended up talking to her for a while instead. Got some shit off my chest, but mainly I urged her to not read too much into what I'd written Thursday night. Pointed out that I'd been drinking when I wrote it.

Then Dina and Kenny left, and HatGirl and LuckyFucker left. SassyGirl told me that they were leaving town Saturday (today) instead of Sunday, so there was much hugging and wailing when they left.

My fourth beer was yet another new one for me.

Regenboog t-Smisje BBBourgondier (10)

(draft) Clear dark copper-colored. Decent head and lacing. A dry fruit aroma and flavor. The alcohol is hidden very well. Pretty damn good.

At about midnight or so I gave Roger a ride home, stopping at White Castle on the way, then I came home myself.

It was a good night.

Mindfreak is the show that the illusionist Criss Angel does. My Tivo records it all the time, and it's a good show. That guy is amazing.

Tonight I watched an episode where he was levitating people. He'd start out by hypnotizing them, asking them to imagine their perfect moment and relax into it. Then he'd levitate them. Like I said, the guy's amazing.

So of course I searched my memory to find my own perfect moment. It didn't take long before I found it. The most perfect moment out of a thousand similar moments.

There was a night, back in the Summer of 2004. Rich O's was packed with strangers and weirdoes, and I was sitting on the loveseat being miserable. Then she came in. She came through the door into Rich O's proper and she kinda frowned when she saw how crowded it was, but then she saw me and she smiled and then she sat with me.

When she smiled, that was my perfect moment.

As I once wrote, it most certainly was not a crush. And fuck anyone who tries to dismiss it as such.

This entry brought to you by Brother Thelonious (75) from the North Coast Brewery.

I have a feeling, a near certainty actually, that this entry isn't going to be published. It's not going to be good enough. It's not going to be worthy of the thoughts and feelings driving its creation. So, I figure, maybe I'll just use this as a practice entry. I'll save it in my drafts folder and then some night I'll be drunk or lonely and I'll rewrite it as something worthy of being published.

Or maybe not.

So SassyGirl is back in town for a visit. I wish I could describe here how fucking wonderful it was to see her Tuesday evening, and Wednesday evening. How much I look forward to seeing her tomorrow night at Rich O's. I wish there were some words that I could use to adequately describe how happy I've been to see her. Words that I could use without fear of people reading the wrong feelings into my words. I doubt that such words exist, and if they do, they continue to elude me.

It is just a visit though. I can't let myself get too satisfied with my life. Such as it is. In a few days or maybe a week, everything will go back to the way it's been for months. Me vs. the world.

You know, I used to never have any friends. All I ever had was acquaintances. They came into my life, and they left my life, and I noticed that they'd gone, but I didn't care. Not really.

All of that changed with LaptopGirl. Sure, I may not have been much to her, but she was my friend. And she came into my life, and she left my life, and I definitely noticed. I may have written about it from time to time, how much I fucking noticed. I don't see her anymore. I've seen a girl who looks like her, and sounds like her, a couple of times. But it's not her. It's not my friend. I don't even think that person ever really existed, except in my head. And my heart.

Anyway.

I met SassyGirl about a month after I met LaptopGirl. In this blog, I used to call her RealTrainGirl. That seems like a million years ago. SassyGirl is so much more fitting. Anyway, that time, the relationship was pegged from the start to remain a platonic one. That time, I never had any of those pesky romantic feelings get in the way.

And you know what?

It was wonderful.

Then SassyGirl left, and once again, I fucking noticed. I was sad. But it was okay. She'd said goodbye. We said goodbye to each other. And besides, it was never going to be forever. We'd see each other again.

Like six months later. Like Tuesday evening.

So that was cool. And it will continue to be cool, like I said, for a few more days or maybe a week. Then we'll say our goodbyes again. And it will be okay, because we'll know that it won't be forever.

Now, this next part is going to be a little tough for me to write. Tough because it's a tough subject for me, and tough because I can just about guarantee that it's going to be misinterpreted.

But I've got to write this. If I don't, if I don't then I'm going to explode some night.

The thing is, everybody leaves.

I think that at least a part of me has known this for a long time. Nothing lives up to the expectations originally hinted at or hoped for. Nothing lasts. Nothing.

Ahem.

HatGirl is leaving.

In either fifteen months or in ten months, she is leaving. The deadline varies but its meaning to me and my life - such as it is - is as steady as a rock.

When HatGirl leaves, it's going to destroy me. It's going to destroy me and every bit of the progress I've made since LaptopGirl left. And I think that there's not a thing I can do about it. I could start to pull away right now, but that would not lessen the blow. I could strive to make every day that I have left count, but that would only delay the inevitable.

It's my fault, of course. It's pretty much always my fault.

It's not love, I once wrote, but it's something.

Something that I should have seen coming. Something that I should have nipped in the bud, as they say.

And now, now I find myself unable and/or unwilling to write anything more about this. What else could I say?

HatGirl is leaving. Those three words. Those three fucking words.

They sear my soul.

June 10th through 15th!

Yay!

It's at The Venetian though, so I have serious doubts that there'll be any good beer. Maybe no beer at all. Probably just foo-foo drinks and wine and champagne, and nothing but caviar to eat.

But I'll get by. I always do.

Vegas, baby!

Jordin: Boring but good. (70 points)

Sabrina: She gets prettier each week, and her singing is steady as a rock. She needs to keep working on her depth though. (75 points)

Antonella: Not very good. Bad, in fact. I will miss her because she seems sweet. (25 points)

Haley: Smoldering hot. Sang some song I never heard before. Good but not great. (75 points)

Stephanie: She's back! Yay! Just awesome. (90 points)

LaKisha: Seriously, just give her the the fucking title. I took off 10 points because I'm a little concerned that she can only sing huge songs. (90 points)

Gina: She's fucking awesome. She has horrible luck with that one background singer though. (95 points)

Melinda: I really like Melinda, but tonight she seemed a little too gospelly for my tastes. She's still great though. (85 points)

A couple of days ago I read on The Dilbert Blog that Scott Adams used the Google Alerts service to keep tabs on what people are writing about him.

I'm familiar with the service. I use it myself. Basically, you tell Google what text to watch for, then when the service finds that text, it emails you with a link.

I use it to looks for my own name, my domain name, and the names of some people who are important to me. Scott Adams uses it to look for the words "Scott Adams Dilbert."

The cool thing is, that by typing that last sentence, I've triggered an email to be sent to Scott Adams, creator of Dilbert. Rich and famous Scott Adams.

That's the cool thing. The fucking cool thing is that, as Scott admits in his own blog, he carries his Blackberry in his pocket.

So, by typing that sentence up there a couple of paragraphs ago, there's a good chance that I've startled Scott Adams, creator of Dilbert, and caused him to derail from whatever train of thought he might have been on.

Maybe he was thinking up his next comic. Maybe I messed that up. Maybe, because of me, it won't be nearly as funny as it would have been.

Or maybe, maybe I jolted him from an idea that was sort of funny to one that's absolutely fucking hilarious.

Maybe he'll be so grateful that he'll start paying me to derail his thought train every now and then.

So what if that lottery thing hasn't worked out? I've got a new retirement plan now.

So I suppose there's a chance that the next time you hear from me, I'll be dead.

Anyone, of course, can say that at any time. Nothing in life is guaranteed, not even life itself. Especially not life itself.

I have managed to royally fuck something up. Physically I mean. Something is not only not right, it's downright wrong.

But I don't know what it is. Maybe it's, as I thought this morning, just a pulled muscle in my back. Maybe I slept weird or something. But if that's all it is, well then it's the worst such case of soreness I've ever felt.

Now don't freak out (especially if you're one of my sisters) but today I fell to the floor in pain. Fucking twice. That brings the number of times I've done that in my life to two.

In other words, it fucking hurts.

In more words, a fucking lot.

Specifically, the pain is about halfway down the left side of my back. It hurts like a motherfucker right now, even as I sit here typing this sentence. Ouch.

So I can't help but wonder if maybe it's not just a pulled muscle caused by sleeping weird. I can't help but wonder if it's something worse. Maybe something that will kill me tonight after I (hopefully) drift off to an aspirin-induced slumber. Aspirin and Rogue Smoke (658), I mean.

Earlier tonight, I took a long hot bath. Even though I was at least a little bit afraid and/or certain that I wouldn't be able to get out of the tub when I was finished, it seemed to be worth the risk. The hot water did seem to help, for a while at least.

And it's not like I didn't take any precautions.

I made sure that the phone numbers for my friend Eric and my cousin Jeff were on speed-dial, and that my phone was right next to the tub. So if I couldn't get out of the tub I could call one of them for assistance. Because while I'm sure that my sisters love me and that they would drag my naked carcass out of the tub if necessary, that activity probably wasn't on their wish-list when they started their day.

But the hot water did make me feel a little better, and I did make it out of the tub my myself. I'm fucking Superman, apparently. Wait, that doesn't read right. I am most certainly not fucking Superman. How about I am Superman, apparently. Yeah, that's better.

(SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL ASIDE: I wonder if Supergirl's hymen is as indestructible as the rest of her. That would suck for her, and for any of her boyfriends. Better, I think, would be if she were like that chick on Heroes, where her hymen would just automagically repair itself whenever the need arose.)

Anyway, I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe it's just another sign of old age. All I know for sure is that it fucking hurts to be me right now.

Blake: The stupidest performance I've ever seen in my life. I took off 50 points because he fooled me into liking him a couple of weeks ago. (negative 35 points)

Sanjaya: A good song for him, and a decent performance. No, really. And I'll try not to kill myself for admitting that he did a decent job. (65 points)

Sundance: I'm pretty sure that he was drunk. I'm positive that I wished I was. (10 points)

Chris R: A decent job with a country song. A little twangy at times. (50 points)

Jared: Look! It's the man with no soul! I thought it was funny when Paula advised him to "color-up" his performances. (0 points)

Brandon: This is some kind of sick joke, right? (negative 473 points)

Phil: Good song. Started out crappy, then got kinda sorta better, then finished crappy. (25 points)

Chris S: Sang some strange song, but I liked it, and I thought he did a great job. (80 points)

I have a tiny confession to make now. One that will come as zero surprise to anyone who's been reading my drivel for any length of time.

I don't know what I'm fucking talking about. Or writing about. What the fuck ever.

Luckily, for me, and for you at home, I sometimes have help. Like tonight. Tonight I've been fortunate and privileged enough to have had The Reverend (370), from the Avery Brewing Company, join me for an evening of contemplation and soul searching.

I've had a question on my mind for a couple of years now. Closer to three years actually, but it doesn't matter exactly how long it's been. This question is eternal, and it's been asked by nearly everyone since the beginning of the beginning of the beginning of consciousness.

It's been asked for a long fucking time, in other words.

It's a two-part question actually. The first part is Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?

The answer to that question is, of course, fucking yes and yes and yes and fucking yes.

I've written about this before, and it's actually one of the few subjects in which I don't feel like I'm just pulling answers out of my ass.

It's approximately seven hundred gazillion asstillion times better to have loved than to never have loved. Go ahead. Prove me wrong. I dare you to try.

And the really neat thing is, to love and then lose doesn't change a fucking thing. We live to love.

I'll say it again. We live to love.

Losing is, while not quite irrelevant, losing is nothing nothing nothing nothing fucking nothing compared to the loving.

So that's the first part of the two-part question.

The second part of the question is Why is it better?

And, tonight at least, I know the answer. At least as much as someone like me can know the answer.

The answer is actually quite simple.

Because sometimes, like maybe once in a lifetime if you're lucky, you don't lose.

Because sometimes, you get to love and you get to win.

To love is to open yourself to that possibility. To surrender yourself to that possibility of happiness. To allow yourself to have hopes, and dreams, and to imagine just how incredibly wonderful life could be.

If only.

This time.

I could be loved back.

Then I would win.

That hope, that trumps everything else. All of the pain. All of the heartache. All of the disappointment and the depression and the suicidal thoughts.

Hope is what separates us from the animals. Hope is what makes us human. So we keep looking. Even after failure after dismal failure, we keep looking for hope.

And, when we find ourselves in love, we also find the hope that's been buried so deeply within us that we almost forgot it existed. Love unearths it, and breathes new live into it, and resurrects it.

It takes over.

Nothing else matters.

Nothing else exists.

We become hope.

And I can't think of a loftier goal.

Someday, I hope to love and win.

Not a bad night, I suppose. A little irritating at times, but I've already gotten over it.

First thing I did was get something to eat at Wendy's. They have these fancy bread sandwiches, panini or something like that, that are delicious. Especially the steak and mushroom version, which is what I had.

Then I went to The Pub and had a couple Newcastles (3524) and talked to a couple of chicks from Canada, eh.

Oh yeah. I found out something very interesting. But of course I can't write about it. I'll just say that I came within three years of realizing a pretty common male sexual fantasy.

When I left The Pub I was planning to head over to Rich O's and have a Rogue Smoke, but I peeked into the Hard Rock, like I usually do, when I walked by. I was, as usual, looking to see if CoolHairGirl was working. And this time she was!

So instead of going to Rich O's I went in and had a Diet Coke and talked to CoolHairGirl for a while. It turned out that she'd still never made it to The Pub for a Newcastle, so when she got off work I invited her to join me for one.

Then, as I wrote in the previous entry, her boyfriend materialized and he joined us as well. I swear, I didn't even know CoolHairGirl had a boyfriend. Now I feel slightly guilty about some of the thoughts that have been running through my head about CoolHairGirl.

Anyway, I had a Newcastle (3544) and then a couple of Diet Cokes while I talked with CoolHairGirl and PajamaDude.

Plus there was this one chick who I thought might be a friend of my sister. So I went over and asked her. It turned out that I had her name right, and that she did know a girl with the same name as my sister, but it still wasn't the girl I'd thought she was. Still pretty weird.

At 1:00 or so I came home.

I did two things wrong tonight. At least, two that I noticed soon after I did them.

First, PajamaDude asked me what I did.

I've written about this recently. About how I shouldn't identify myself by what I do for a living, because it's too boring.

But I did it anyway.

PajamaDude asked me what I did, and I said that I worked with computers.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

So that was the first mistake.

Later, I was taking a piss, and I realized that I'd identified myself incorrectly. That I'd broken my own rule. So once I got back to the bar I told PajamaDude that I'd been mistaken earlier. That, though I worked with computers for a living, I preferred to consider myself as a writer.

So then he asked me what kinds of things I wrote.

"Mostly drivel," I answered.

"Like what?" he asked.

"Stuff about relationships," I said. "Or the lack thereof."

So that was my second mistake. I mean, I do write about crap like that, but it's hardly ever the main point of my writing.

What I should have said is that I write about things that annoy me.

Like when I invite a hot girl, who I've been interested in for months, out for a beer, and she agrees, but then her boyfriend materializes out of thin air and joins us and turns me into a third wheel.

I should have said that I write about shit like that.

Just a couple of surprises, both of the pleasant variety. So I was worried for nothing.

I got to Rich O's after 9:00. I got a parking spot in the actual Rich O's parking lot, so like a dumbass I thought that maybe it wouldn't be too crowded.

Wrong.

It was packed as fuck. With mostly strangers but quite a few weirdoes as well. Luckily I didn't see any fuckheads or idiots. I did see my cousin Jamie sitting in the loser section when I first walked in. I count him as a stranger.

Inside Rich O's proper, I gave Bubbles some shit for the crowd. It was supposed to be her night to keep the weirdoes away. She said that she didn't get the memo.

Anyway, the first pleasant surprise of the night was that Rogue Smoke was on tap. So I had one of those (530). I stood at the end of the bar for a while, then I moved some dude's jacket so I could sit at the kiddie table, then when the jacket dude left the throne I moved there.

Then it got boring for a while. But then a familiar and lovely shape darkened the doorway. I looked up, and it was HatGirl!

Yay!

So the next couple of hours were fun. Even though one drunk dude stole my seat when I went outside to take a phone call from work, and when I came back in I had to sit on the sofa. It was very nice to see HatGirl, and LuckyFucker seemed to be in a much better mood.

So all was good.

When I was about halfway through my second Rogue Smoke (550) a bit of reality started to sink in. Even though I've been doing my best to ignore and deny it. So I was glad that I could at least tell HatGirl a couple of things that had been on my mind. Then, of course, I apologized to her for dumping my problems onto her shoulders. She can take it though. And now maybe I can be a little less cryptic when I write about how bothered I am by all this.

Anyway.

I'd been kinda sorta halfway expecting to maybe even see SassyGirl last night. I talked to her Sunday, and she and JauntyGirl are slowly but surely making their way back towards Southern Indiana. But they didn't show last night. Oh well.

Once HatGirl and LuckyFucker left I had a Diet Coke and talked to FutureDude for a bit. Then I came home.

I'm feeling the anxiety brought on by a mild case of surprisaphobia tonight, while I wait for my shirt to dewrinkle.

Though it's more than that. More than just a feeling that I'm not ready for certain surprises. Tonight, I'm also noticing an almost palpable certainty that if I'm not surprised, then the entire night will end up being a waste of time.

So yeah, it's kind of a lose-lose situation if I go. I should probably just let fear win and keep me at home. But I won't.

Wish me luck.

Thanks.

The Louisville weather forecast for Saturday.

A slight chance of snow showers between 8am and 11am, then a slight chance of snow showers between 11am and 1pm, then a slight chance of snow showers between 1pm and 4pm, then a slight chance of snow showers after 4pm.

I'm not really sure how to express this. I might write some drivel and then delete it because it's stupid. Or maybe not. Some of you people have come to expect, and even desire, drivel from me.

Where to start?

I had a brief lunch with NotHideousGirl today. And it was nice and pleasant, and she's lovely and witty. I talked to EllaGirl for a while after that, and it was intriguing and enchanting, and she's pretty and funny.

Perfectly normal stuff.

But then, after EllaGirl was called away, I allowed myself to imagine that MixedSignalGirl was there with me. And it was poignant and burning, and she was beautiful and incredible and delicious. And I wanted to cry.

And, after a while, I went back to work. And I was fine.

I went to Rich O's after work. And while I was there I saw the ghost. And it was heart-rending and exhilarating and stunning, and the ghost was sparkling and burning and radiant. And I wanted to cry.

And, after a while, I came home. And I was fine.

I am, for today anyway, I am in control of my emotions. I can feel what I want to feel, when I want to feel it. And then I can turn off those feelings when I no longer want them.

This is fucking huge.

Because I don't want to bury these things so deeply that they're effectively absent from my life. But neither do I want them to control my life and maybe even define my life.

I want what I want, but only when I want it.

This is fucking huge.

I hope it lasts beyond today.

I'm afraid to go to sleep.