Uh oh, I'm in a weird mood again. Usually that means that I'm about to start spouting drivel, but maybe not this time.

Okay, maybe just a little.

Most of the time, I can honestly say that I'm not ashamed of anything that I feel, and therefore write. Usually, I know that I don't have a choice, and that's enough to assuage any embarrassment or shame. But sometimes, sometimes like tonight, I find myself very uncomfortable inside my own skin.

Tonight, I am afraid.

I don't like it, and I don't have a choice, and I'd like to be able to wish this feeling away to make room for those pleasant feelings that are right now cowering inside me. But I think I'm going to have to deal with this fear. I don't think it's going to go away.

Not this time.

I think that, this time, I'm going to have to face my fear or else I'm going to have to run from it.

If only it were that simple. If only those choices weren't both so selfish.

There is a third choice.

Ignore my fear, and be destroyed.

41241 241241241 41241 241241241
(repeat until fingers bleed)

I'm feeling generous. Over at the journalspace incarnation of this blog, I'm offering a year of pro-access to whoever gets this right.

I think today was kinda boring. It must have been because I can't remember any of it.

Hold on a second while I scour my brain...

Okay, found some things.

First, my guilt-induced insomnia really played havoc with me Sunday night and into Monday morning. I bet I got three whopping hours of sleep. So that sucked.

Then some crap exciting and challenging activities I was doing for work finally finished, so I was able to stop checking my computer every 10 minutes. So that was cool.

All day long I was starving, yet totally unmotivated to get dressed and leave my house. I just saw no point in it. I see no point in much these days. At about 5:00, however, I noticed that I was almost out of Diet Coke, so I showered, grudgingly put on some clothes, and exited the premises. Because there's no way I'd be able to get up in the morning without my caffeine.

I drove my Monte Carlo (the day's predicted tornado stampede never materialized) to Red Lobster for dinner. My phone rang when I was on the way. It was StupidGirl! Yay! She's so nice. She wanted to wish me a happy Memorial Day because I'm a veteran. Of course, I'm not a dead veteran, but it was the thought that counted.

At Red Lobster, I had my usual yummy food. So that was cool. And I texted OddlyFamiliarGirl in case she was working, but I guess she wasn't.

Then I went to Hooters and had a couple glasses of Newcastle (9618). I traded a few million emails with RockGirl. Then I came home.

I've been watching a bunch of tivoed episodes of The Alaska Experiment.

Now I want to move back to Alaska. I liked it there, except for it being a nonstop statewide sausage festival. It was pretty, except for all the sausages.

Okay, so after my last entry, I remembered that I was bored, so I left my house.

I went to Polly's Freeze for dinner. Some dipshits had my table, but I got over it.

When I was waiting for my food, there was this old woman standing nearby, also waiting for her food. She kinda looked like the mother of a childhood friend of mine, except much older.

"Excuse me Ma'am, are you Brian's great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, by any chance?" I asked.

"I'm his mother," she conceded.

So I told her who I was, and that it was good to see her. I'm pretty sure that she even remembered me. Weird how she's managed to age a quarter-century since I last saw her, a quarter-century ago. I'm sure it's my fault somehow.

But seriously, it was cool to see her. I always worry about people dying. I'm glad she didn't.

Interestingly enough, her son Brian was the model for one of my youngest sister's imaginary childhood friends. For about six months after this one day when Brian came down to our house to play, my sister Neisha was always, "Brian this," and "Brian that." it was quite cute, actually. Her other imaginary friend was named Rakis and I always figured that she'd heard the word rapist on TV or something.

After I left Polly's, I went down to Sluttopia for a Newcastle (9578). I might have stayed for another one but this one drunk kept mumbling to me about the race that was on TV. He kept saying, "Aaarg yuuurg blarr farrrrrrrr uttttt," which I think translates as, "Look at them make all those fucking left turns."

I soon realized that I was just as bored at Sluttopia as I'd be at my house. I also realized that there weren't any mumbling drunk NASCAR fans at my house. So I came home.

My fun day started at about 7:00 in the morning, when I woke up and remembered that everything is my fault. After that, I couldn't get back to sleep, because of all the guilt, so I just stayed up and shot some pool for a while.

Then, I went to NotHideousGirl's house to help move some of her shit into storage. We'd agreed to meet at 1:00, and NotHideousGirl was considerate enough to call me at 12:59, when I was about 30 seconds from her house, to tell me that the time would be 3:00 instead of 1:00.

I ended up waiting on her porch for an hour or so, listening to the neighbors having a full blown white-trash throw-down. I suspected that one of them was going to murder the other, then murder me for being a witness. So I shot off a couple of quick emails, to RockGirl and LaptopGirl. You know, to say a proper goodbye and stuff.

But I guess the neighbors must have ended up killing each other, as the racket suddenly stopped after about an hour, and I'm still alive, so whew! My lucky day.

Then we loaded my truck up and took NotHideousGirl's stuff to storage, five or six times. It's not quite as bad as it sounds, though, because my truck has the carrying capacity of a gnat's rectum. Plus, MusicalYuppieDude was there to help, and TremensGirl and UPSDude showed up as well. The whole thing only took a couple of hours.

Now I'm back home trying to decide what to do with the rest of my Sunday. It'll be pretty hard to top what's already happened, so I may just stay home. Quit while I'm ahead and all that.

I think that, to carry a metaphor way too far, I think that the arches of my feet are simply getting too sore to bear.

All this fucking tiptoeing around. Like I'm all sneaky and shit.

New flash: I'm not sneaky. Everyone sees me. Everyone knows what I'm doing. Everyone is laughing at my fumbling attempts to pretend that things are normal. That I'm normal.

I'm just getting sick and tired of it. My tiptoeing is not fooling anyone, and so it serves no purpose except to spotlight a failed attempt at deception.

I hate doing this, I did it, for a long time, because I thought it was necessary. The right thing to do. And maybe it was the right thing to do, for a while. But that time has passed.

A lie of omission is still a lie.

---

Also, because I don't want to forget this, and also because I thought it was funny, I had myself a gay cheeseburger tonight.

What's that you say? You didn't know there was such a thing as a gay cheesburger?

Well, I didn't know it either, but I was wrong. As were you.

So I went to Wendy's and, as usual, I ordered the #2 meal plain with a Diet Coke. Then I stepped aside to wait for my order to be prepared.

I guess the burger guy was a trainee or something, because the manager chick had to explain to him what "plain" meant. She said that it should have just cheese on it. He didn't understand, so she said it more clearly. "A plain cheeseburger should have meat, cheese, bread, and nothing else on it," she said.

"Well that's gay," the burger guy replied.

For the record, my gay cheeseburger was very good.

It was weird, though. I had the strangest urge to go dancing after I'd eaten it.

Okay, so I'm a week behind on beer reports. I don't care, and so I certainly can't expect anyone else to care. Not that anyone ever did anyway.

I'm doing it again, I see. Writing this for other people instead of for myself. I hate it when I do this. It means that I stop writing about the mundane boring bullshit that I use for a life, and I either don't write anything or I write something else that gets me into trouble.

---

So the other day I was thinking about a couple of tough things that I keep having to do. The first thing is acting somewhat like a normal person, sometimes. The second thing is dealing with pain.

I can do either of those things.

I can act so much like a normal person, sometimes, that sometimes I even start to fool myself into thinking that maybe it's not an act. And I've already gone through, and recovered from, so much pain in my life that I know that I can handle anything.

But what I can't do, what I can't do is act normal and deal with pain at the same time.

This is my current problem.

I was slapped in the face, then punched in the gut, then kicked in the nuts, all in the span of about an hour. All three things hurt me deeply, both because they happened and because of from whom the blows came. Doesn't matter that these things might have been were probably unintentional. Sometimes apathy is worse than cruelty.

I can deal with it, though. It's just pain, after all. Pain and I, we're old friends now.

But don't expect me to act normal while I deal with it.

Had this dream last night. It was all quite realistic and dramatic.

It was a typical Summer day. Partly cloudy and warm. Our little-league baseball teams neared the end of our game. The score was 5 to 7, and my team was losing. It was the bottom of the last inning. There were two outs and a runner on first.

It was my turn to bat.

I wasn't the best hitter on my team, but I was certainly no slouch. Not known for my power, though I could certainly deliver it on occasion, I was more of a hitter than a slugger. I was third in the batting order.

I selected a fairly light bat, so that I might swing it quickly. Power wasn't what I was looking for. Not this time. This time I wanted bat-control. This time all I wanted to do was get on base, so Tony would get another chance to bat. And hit another home run. It would be his third of the day. If I could give him the opportunity.

I settled into the batter's box, far from the plate as always. I didn't like being pushed away from the plate, and I knew I could reach anything outside. I wasn't worried. This pitcher was a joke. I was 3 for 3 against him already. The first pitch was an overhead lob and, just as it was thrown, the Sun emerged from behind a cloud. The pitch was a called strike. I had to take the umpire's word for it, because I was temporarily blinded.

The second pitch was an obvious ball, in the dirt. I watched it bounce into the catcher's mitt, and I laughed. I was being kind of a dick, I suppose.

The third pitch was side-armed, low and inside, but certainly hittable. I saw the ball clearly. The ball was going bye-bye.

Chris, my teammate on first, took off as the pitch was thrown.

As it turned out, I only caught the top half of the ball. A slow grounder to third would really test my speed.

Chris was already at second when the third baseman got to the ball.

I barely beat the ball to first base, but it didn't matter, because the throw missed the first baseman and bounced to the pitcher covering behind him.

Oops.

Chris didn't slow down as he rounded second.

I took a few steps away from first base and taunted the pitcher as he quickly retrieved the ball. Yes, I was definitely being a dick.

He watched me, trying to gauge if he could tag me out or not. He completely forgot about my teammate until Chris scored, on a weak single, all the way from first.

Now it was 6 to 7. Still bottom of the ninth, still two outs, but now it was my lovely self on first.

I called timeout, and told Coach about being blinded by the sun on my first pitch. I said I was going to steal second, and count on the catcher being just as blinded as I'd been. Coach agreed. I needed to get into scoring position.

I took a long lead, and the pitcher glared me back to the base. I took an even longer lead, and the pitcher whipped around and threw the ball to...

the right-fielder, apparently.

I think he meant to throw it to the first baseman. It was, after all, where the first basemen would normally stand. But not when there's a runner on first who's threatening to steal second.

So the ball went into right field and, I could tell, would make it all the way to the fence before anyone got to it.

I took off, and made it all the way to third before the ball came back to the infield

It was still 6 to 7. It was still bottom of the ninth, and still two outs. But now I was on third.

I was very excited. I let out a loud woo-hoo and my team echoed that sentiment from their bench. The dick trifecta was complete.

The opposing team made a pitching change.

It was a girl!

She had a huge entourage with her. Family members, friends, members of the press. They filled the stands and lined up along both baselines. Many of them stood directly on the third baseline, completely blocking my view of the plate.

In fact, on the first pitch to Tony, I could only stand there and wonder if it had been a ball or a strike. I'd certainly heard no crack of the bat.

I called timeout again, and went and asked the home-plate umpire if he could ask the people on the baseline to move, because I could neither see the plate nor run to it, should the opportunity arise.

The umpire said, "No, you'll be fine. Play ball."

I was incredulous. I pleaded for him to move the people from the baseline, to at least give me and my team a chance.

The umpire said, "No, you'll be fine, those people can stay where they are. They just want to see their girl pitch."

So I did what any reasonable person would do. I borrowed the bat from Tony and I bashed the umpire's head into a bloody pulp.

What's one more than a trifecta, a superfecta?

Stepping over the umpire's body, and still carrying the bloodied bat, I went to the first base umpire. I asked him if he could make the people on the baselines move. He took at glance at the carnage at home plate, nodded meekly, and started shooing people away from the baselines.

Who says violence never solved anything?

I pitched the bat back to Tony, and started walking back toward third base. I was feeling pretty satisfied with myself. I'd driven in a run, and I'd turned a weak single into a triple. I'd given Tony another chance to bat. I'd given my team a chance to tie the game, or maybe even win it.

As I walked by the pitcher's mound, I nodded and smiled at the girl pitcher standing there. She was pretty cute. Probably a carpet-muncher, though.

Damn.

I think I must have said that word to myself a million times today. I'll probably say it a million more times tomorrow, and again the next day, and again the next day.

Damn.

I need a new thesaurus, I think.

So I just went back and reread a bunch of my old drivel. To see how I dealt with situations like this in the past. I knew what I was expecting to find. Anger. Sadness. Disbelief. More sadness.

I didn't even remember writing the bullshit that I found, but the vast majority of what I found consisted of bullshit piled atop more bullshit.

I was such a fucking liar, back then. I lied to myself every time I wrote that bullshit. Which was a fucking lot, as I just discovered.

And now I wish that I was still a liar. A good one, a convincing one.

So that I might tell myself the bullshit again, and believe it, and maybe even actually get some sleep.

Damn.

One day last week I was emailing HatGirl back and forth about wine and such. I'm buying the wine for her wedding reception. Because I'm a nice guy, at least when people are deserving of my niceness, which is rare these days, but HatGirl is special.

Anyway, HatGirl said something or other about how to thank me for the wine. My thought was, It's her flipping wedding. I get to see her at her absolute happiest. That's thanks enough for a lifetime.

So I told her as much. But I also told her that, "Actually, you can thank me by letting me dance with the bride at the reception."

Pretty much the greatest idea in history, right?

That's what I thought.

In fact, there are only two things wrong with the idea.

My two left feet.

I can't dance. Not at all, and certainly not the type of dancing I expect to see at wedding receptions.

I guess I picture LuckyFucker and HatGirl dancing for a bit, then probably HatGirl's dad cuts in, then maybe I cut in. And it's that semi-formal kind of dancing that you see in the movies. My right hand on HatGirl's waist, my left hand in her right hand. And we do something with our feet, though I haven't a clue as to what that might me. Move them, maybe? Take some steps, perhaps? And I think there's this thing called "rhythm" that we're supposed to pay attention to.

So I've been asking around. Surely I must know some girl who (a) can dance and (b) is willing to teach me.

Nope.

As of this writing, zero girls will admit to knowing how to dance this kind of dance. Only FirstGirl would admit to any dancing talent at all, and she seemed much more interested in teaching me to Tango or Cha-Cha.

I guess I've still got some time. Maybe I can take some professional lessons. Or find me some gay guy to teach me. I think they're all born with the ability or something.

I guess the only thing I know for sure is that nobody should expect to see me cutting any rugs or getting jiggy with anything. I'm pretty sure those things are beyond my abilities, and I know for an absolute fact that I wouldn't be doing that kind of dancing anyway. There's not that much alcohol on Earth. You may as well expect me to sing karaoke.

Trying to figure out exactly what I'm adding to this little formula that's got us so stumped. Or even approximately what I'm adding. Or subtracting. All I really know for sure is that the balance is tilted heavily in my favor.

My wins, they're all so fucking huge. I've become a spoiled brat. And sometimes I forget just how fantastic things are. And sometimes I throw a tantrum when things don't go my way. I threw a tantrum all day today. It's a wonder I didn't give myself a heart attack.

But, I'm better now.

It doesn't take much. Just a little tug on the line, as if to make sure I'm still here. Still hooked.

That curiosity, it means something. I think it might mean that I matter, just a little.

Though I can't for the life of me imagine why. Or for what.

I can't figure out what I'm good for, is I guess what I'm trying to say.

The whole thing is so lopsided, so unfair. I shouldn't be the one who gets to be happy. At least I shouldn't be the only one.

---

I had a dream today.

I accidentally wiped a smile off a beautiful face, and the world wept. I dedicated my life to bringing that smile back, but it wasn't meant to be. For I was the destroyer of beauty, and its restoration was beyond my abilities. Years later, I looked at the gray place that the world had become, that I had created with one selfish act, and I dreaded death. For that smile survived only in my memory, and when I died, it would be lost forever.

---

Crap, it's 1:30 already. I suppose I should go stare at my ceiling for a while.

So this is one of those entries that I'll write and, if I'm smart, delete before too many people read it.

I used to never do this, but it's a stupid semi-habit that I seem to have picked up. I get in these moods. Good, bad, weird, whatever - and I get an overwhelming urge to write about it. Then, if I'm lucky, I remember that nobody needs my bullshit and I delete what I've written.

I remember a dream that I once had. I wrote about it briefly. Well, take out the part about the song, and definitely take out the part about the whore, and what you're left with is my mood right now.

Swimming upstream. Getting nowhere. Wasting my time.

It's not a very pleasant mood. But it's my own damn fault. I lose sight of what's important, every now and then. I lose sight of what's important and all I see is stupid stuff that's selfish and therefore not important at all.

Last night, in an oddly coincidental bit of timing, RockGirl asked me a question. "Are you happy?" she asked. "Like in general, with life and everything. Just yes or no. You don't need to elaborate," she continued.

My reply was immediate. "Yes I am," I said.

Later, in a separate email, I cheated and I elaborated. I explained my answer. Even though RockGirl certainly needed no explanation, I gave her one anyway.

Tonight, for a while as I selfishly thought about myself, I forgot why I was happy. Just for a little while, but for long enough to completely fuck up my mood. At the worst possible time. As if there's any good time for completely fucking up my mood.

See, I've had this bullshit premonition in my head. Except that now I'm not so sure it's bullshit at all. Now I'm thinking that it's probably something that I'd better start getting ready to deal with. But I don't want to fucking deal with it, because any normal person would just walk away, and when I refuse to walk away, that will out me as a person who's anything but normal. And there may be one or two people left on Earth who still hold to the illusion that I'm normal. I'd hate to shatter the reality of those one or two people - they're totally innocent, after all.

I'm pretty sure that I'm rambling now. To be honest, it feels good to ramble sometimes.

The thing is, the thing that I should really start repeating to myself over and over and over and over until it's impressed into my brain like initials scratched into concrete, the thing is that I am deliriously happy. And I have damn good reasons for it. I need to remind myself of those reasons. Constantly. Instead of just coasting through life as a grinning idiot, I need to fucking remind myself why I'm happy.

It's unbelievable to me that I'm even capable of forgetting, but it's still happening. So I need to wipe this stupid fucking grin off my face and get to work.

Not cool, dude.

Not fucking cool at all.

Thursday was okay. I went to Rich O's, because I was taking Friday off. All the regular Thursday weirdoes were there encamped in the living room, plus there was an art show, so there were art show weirdoes scampering about as well. I ended up having two pints of NABC Cone Smoker (3833) while I talked with OddlyFamiliarGirl. She distracted me from all the weirdoes, so that was cool.

Then today I developed this overwhelming feeling that something terrible is either happening or about to happen. Even now, several hours later, I can't shake this feeling. I remind myself that I'm not psychic, and that helps a little, but there's still a very strong urge to go hole-up in my basement for a couple of years.

Tonight was my niece's 21st birthday party thingy. We started out at Hard Rock, and then AlliGirl did a fantastic job of hooking everyone up at Rock Bar. They got full V.I.P. treatment, and my niece totally deserved it.

Also, AlliGirl totally disappeared at around 11:00.

Weird.

Oh yeah, I had a Newcastle (9516) in a plastic cup from the Pub.

It was a good day.

A little weird and surreal, but still good.

And now I've got insomnia for some reason.

There I am, cruising along with my life, appreciating people, sometimes even *gasp* liking people.

But then it happens. They say stuff or they do stuff, and I realize - I've been dealing with one of those people all along. They made me feel like a fool, because I never even suspected that they were one of those people until it was too late. I was already emotionally invested.

Those fucking people, I hate them so much. Always saying that stuff and doing those things. I don't know how they can even stand to be around themselves, let alone expect others to tolerate their presence.

Those people suck. I think I'd wish they would all just die, but I'm afraid that might be too mean of a wish. So, instead, I just wish all those people would go away. Maybe go live on a fucking island, far far away, somewhere with others of their kind.

As long as I never had to see or talk to one of those people again as long as I lived, I think I'd be pretty happy.

Sometimes I say things or, more rarely, do things. Things that might not be totally selfless. Things that, on the surface at least, aren't obviously bad, but that are still at least a little bit suspect.

Why did he just say that? people might ask.

What does he mean? people might wonder.

What's he doing now? people might question.

I think it's usually subconscious for me, when I do some of the things I do, and say some of the things I say. I mean, I don't hardly ever intend to do/say these things - they just happen. And then, once they've happened, I'm fucking glad that they did.

I was thinking tonight about certainty.

Some synonyms: assurance, certitude, confidence, conviction, positiveness, surety

Some antonyms: ambiguity, doubt, hesitation, questionableness, tergiversation

It seems to me that we all go through our lives with an almost unbearable amount of uncertainty. Our jobs, our families, our friends, our lovers - none are open books. All harbor secrets or, if not really secrets, at least knowledge that hasn't been uncovered. Questions that haven't been answered or even, in many cases, asked.

Will this last?

What does that mean?

Have I blown it?

What just happened?

Sometimes, I do things or say things. Things that, I hope, either reduce or, ideally, eliminate uncertainty about the way that I feel. And why I feel the way that I feel. About the way that I intend and expect to always feel, forever and ever.

Purposeful or not, intentional or not, planned or not, these things that I sometimes do and say - they all have at their core the one thing that's the most important to me as I struggle to keep my head above water through these turbulent times.

They are all the absolute truth.

If, for example, I say that I always want to see a certain person then that's exactly what it means. There's no ambiguity in the word always. It means what it means, Weird and unsettling as it may be, it's still the absolute truth. It's still a certainty.

I've spent so much time without any certainty about the things that are most important to me. I hate hate hate fucking hate the thought of some people being uncertain as to my intentions, or my feelings, or my motives.

I fucking hate that thought. So sometimes I say things, and sometimes I do things. Things that just might help to clarify things, to answer some of those nagging yet unasked questions.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, I'm in a weird mood. I can thank New Holland Night Tripper (68) for this mood.

To be honest, I don't remember an awful lot about Saturday night between about 7:00 and about 11:00. But I'll start writing anyway and maybe it'll all come rushing back to me.

---

After LaptopGirl left, I think that was about when I started my fourth Dirty Helen. (322). I'd been considering maybe possibly thinking about going to Louisville, but that fourth beer pretty much put that idea on hold. Not that I really wanted to go anyway. LaptopGirl might come back, she'd said.

I'd somehow managed to grab the throne. I don't remember moving there. LaptopGirl and I'd sat on the loveseat when she was there.

Anyway, I was on the throne, just kind of vegging out. Then NotHideousGirl came in. It was very cool to see her, arm in a sling and all.

I didn't word that correctly. The sling part wasn't cool. I meant to say that it was cool to see her despite the sling.

At one point, MusicalYuppieDude came in. I think that was about when I ordered my fifth Dirty Helen (342).

So the three of us talked about random bullshit. The place was pretty dead - just the way I like it. I don't think anyone bothered us except this one dude that's always mooching cigarettes off everyone.

I switched to Diet Cokes at about 8:30 or so. I still felt fine, actually. I just knew that another beer would result in my not feeling fine. So I cut myself off.

Then, at about 10:00, I had an interesting phone conversation. At 10:30 or so, I left Rich O's to go to Louisville.

And then some stuff happened, and some other stuff didn't happen.

For one thing, I got pee on me.

You don't have to tell me that it's kinda silly for me to be here now. And by here I mean the red room at Rich O's, and by now I mean 3:30 on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. You don't have to tell me, because I sort of already know it. But what I also know is that I've got a damn good reason for being here. Now.

I'm supposed to meet LaptopGirl here at 5:00, to tell her something which she already knows. Not that one thing which she already knows, silly. Another thing. I need to tell her that her computer is probably on its last legs.

Anyway, I got bored at home and I didn't want to start anything new at 3:00, so I came down here instead. And now I'm sitting and writing and enjoying a Barley Island Dirty Helen (262). But mostly, I'm waiting. I do that a lot, it seems.

So this morning, after I took care of some bullshit exciting challenges for work, I took my Monte Carlo to get its oil changed. That wasn't particularly interesting except that this one dude kept bugging me to sell my car to him. Not gonna happen, OilChangeDude, so back the fuck off.

After that, I drove around for a while. I checked out the new NABC brewery location. Not much to see except for this one temporary banner thingy. I took a picture:

Then I went down to the other side of the floodwall and looked at the river for a while. That place used to seem so isolated when I was a teenager. Now it's some kind of stupid park. They've got fucking bandstands and bleachers and shit. Plus, it's closed at night. Much slaking used to take place there at night. I wonder where people go now, when they want to slake.

Then I went to Polly's Freeze for lunch. And I got to sit at my favorite table, so that was cool.

Next I drove to Lanesville. I'd decided that I was apparently retracing my childhood in reverse-order. I mean with the floodwall and Polly's. With the oil-change place and the brewery, not so much. So I went to this park in Lanesville where I used to play until I was six and we moved away. It used to be a pretty shitty (hey, poet and don't know it) park. And I suppose it's still shitty. But they keep adding new buildings to the place. They're all locked, though. Maybe that's where they keep all the cool stuff.

I took pictures of this slide. I can't believe it's still here after all these years. I'd have thought it would have rusted into a heap by now. This slide was always scary as fuck to me, when I'd climb up those shaky chains and then pull and contort myself between the bars to the platform. It was worth it, though, because the sliding-down part was really cool.

Next I drove to my old house there in Lanesville. I keep hoping to see somebody in the yard, but I never have, and today was no different.

Next I went home for a bit, but I got bored and came here to Rich O's.

Oh yeah, now I'm having my second Dirty Helen (282) and it's yummy.

So there.

I'll admit, I was a little concerned last night. This dive bar burned to the ground the other morning, and so there was a lot of barless riff-raff in New Albany all of a sudden. So I was concerned that many of those people would infest Rich O's and start doing their drugs in the restroom and start arguments with the bartenders over the lack of swill to drink.

But, if there was any riff-raff there, I didn't see them. It was a fairly nice and relaxing night.

That was the good news. The bad news was that LaptopGirl made only the briefest of appearances. Just enough to whet my appetite. It's okay, though; we're not fighting again. She just had to go back home.

I knew I should have just gone to Covington.

So I spent the bulk of the night sitting at the kiddie table. I started out with a glass of Delirium Tremens (1258) and I followed that up with a couple of pints of Barley Island Dirty Helen (242). All were good. I spent some time talking to SmooshDude, and once he left I moved to the loveseat and talked to PearlGirl and a couple of other chicks. One of the other chicks has been in enough that I will christen her PoolGirl because she's a pool player.

At the end of the night I found myself standing at the end of the bar talking to FutureDude for a while. I came home at midnight or so.

Oh yeah, ActualGeorge was there for a while, too. But he stayed out in the loser section with his family, so I only talked to him for a couple of minutes.

First, I do want to. And I think it's time. But I can't. I was asked to never do it, remember?

---

Monday I finally had the water pump replaced in the Monte Carlo. So now I can actually drive it again. This is beyond cool to me. I even drove it to work today, risking door-dings in the parking garage. Once I get the exhaust repaired (it's a little LOUD) then there'll be nothing wrong with the car except that its owner still won't really be cool enough for it.

---

One of these years I should probably fix the gutter that was torn loose in January.

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I think I want to go back to Covington this weekend. I seriously doubt that I'll do any such thing, because last time I checked, Covington wasn't located inside Rich O's.

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On Monday I got to hang out with NormalGirl and RahRahGirl for a while after work. They were dressed to the nines (whatever that means) in sexy slinky black dresses. I don't think I did a very good job of averting my gaze, especially regarding NormalGirl.

---

I've felt myself starting to lose faith in one of my friends. Not that I ever really had any reason to think that I could trust him completely. But lately I've become a little convinced that he'd betray me in a heartbeat. So, I'm getting a little preemptively angry at him. I'm being stupid, I know.

---

Oh yeah, I managed to poke myself in the eye or something last night while I was sleeping. It's been hurting me all day, and it's a lovely shade of red. I hope it doesn't rot and fall out, but if it does then I'm going to get a glass eye that's brown. That way I can walk around with two differently-colored eyes and see if anyone notices.

---

It's midnight and I still have 3/4 of this Marzen (3591) left in my glass. I'd better get to drinking it.

---

I still have better topics that I want to write about. I still can't motivate myself to write, though, so crap like this is all you get for now.

I'm in a weird mood.

Normally this type of mood would mean that I was about to start spouting drivel, but tonight I don't think it's going to happen.

See, I'm not allowed to write about feeling sad, which I'm not, because then people go, WTF happened this time? And I'm certainly not allowed to write about being happy, which I am, because then people go, OMG Dave is off his rocker again!

I could write about generic and/or hilarious things, like tonight's Indiana (preliminary) election results, but my heart's really not in it.

So I think I'll just go to bed. And maybe I'll dream something good that I won't be able to write about.

I just wanted to say that my cat Nugget is psychic.

He sensed that my mood was becoming unsteady, and he jumped into my lap and started licking my arm.

Now, if I can only get him to use his psychic powers to tell me the next winning lottery numbers...

See, this one time, there was this really bad thing that happened. I may have mentioned it from time to time. This bad thing happened, and I died.

It was not murder. It wasn't even manslaughter, though a good attorney might have been able to wrestle a plea bargain from a gullible defendant.

Doesn't matter though. The past has, as they say, passed.

Then, several months later, another really bad thing happened, and I died again. Except that time, the really bad thing didn't just happen. Nope, that time, it was done to me.

That time, I was murdered.

There's really no other way to say it. No acceptable excuse, though a few excuses have auditioned for me. And been rejected outright.

It was done, to me, on purpose. It was premeditated murder. Murder most foul, as I read somewhere in some book I think.

But again, it doesn't matter. The past has passed.

Anyway, what I realized this morning, before it turned into a good day, was that I knew what I was more afraid of than anything else.

It's not the first thing happening again. It's not even the second thing happening again.

It's both things, at the same time.

A part of me expects both these things to happen at any time. Any second now, I expect to check my pulse and discover that I'm dead again. And bullshit like Saturday night only fuels that fear.

I've said it a million times, though perhaps not so wordily; it takes the tiniest of efforts to ease my fears, but it also takes the slightest disregard to create them and feed them and raise them until they're big enough and strong enough to consume me.

Just a little effort. Just a smidgen of empathy, leading to a hint of courtesy. I don't think that's too much.

I know that this is all clear as mud. Can't be helped, I'm afraid.

I have about a million things I want to write about today. But I think I'm just going to start with the one that's a happy thing.

I had a good day today.

First, it was beautiful outside. A little chilly, but that only matters when I'm outside, and I didn't go outside until it had warmed up to a semi-respectable 60 degrees.

Anyway, my day started, predictably enough, checking email and MySpace and Facebook, looking for some clue as to what the fuck happened Saturday night. Well I found no clues, and I started to get a little sad. But then, then I got the nicest distraction ever when HatGirl called me.

HatGirl!

Yay!

I talked to HatGirl for what seemed like a million years of bliss and, by the time our conversation was over, I was no longer in any danger of being sad. At least not for today.

Guess what I did next!

Guess!

Damn, you guys suck at guessing. Fine I'll just tell you. You'd better sit down.

I replaced the window switch in my Monte Carlo!

Yay!

This is the first time in 23,000 years that the windows in my Monte Carlo have actually been controllable from the driver's door. And, it also the first time in 22,000 years that the door panel has been on said door.

Yay!

Oh yeah, after I went to the parts store to buy a switch, but before I went back home, I went to Polly's Freeze for lunch. All of the food was yummy as always. It kinda sucked that some asshole had my favorite table, though. I guess they haven't gotten around to chiseling Reserved for Dave on the table's concrete surface yet.

After I'd returned home, and replaced the window switch (yay!) I realized a couple of things. Thing the first was that it was a really nice day, weather-wise. Thing the second was that I didn't want to go back into my house on such a nice day.

So, I didn't.

I sat in my garage for several hours, totally kicked-back on my el-cheapo white plastic furniture, and I listened to the radio and I drank a couple of yummy beers and I glared at my phone and I thought about someone something wonderful and I smiled and I laughed.

It was a perfect day.

Then the Sun went down, and the temperature dropped 50,000 degrees, and I came back into my stupid house and watched stupid TV.

Today, I might have killed a horse. Or at least helped to kill the poor thing.

I went to my friend Eric's Derby party. I hadn't been planning to make any bets beyond the pseudo-bet of paying $5 and drawing a horse out of an envelope. I got Anak Kara or something like that. I think it's still running.

But then LaptopGirl and I made an arrangement. I would bet her favorite horses and then split any winnings with her.

This betting frenzy, apparently, spurred BadPickleGirl's interest, and so she ended up placing her own bet.

She bet the filly. The only filly in the thing. The filly that came in second. The filly that, immediately after the race, broke both its front ankles, collapsed on the track, and was euthanized.

That filly.

Anyway, while I mostly rooted for LaptopGirl's (and therefore my) horses, I also found myself silently rooting for BadPickleGirl's horse.

Maybe, I think, if I hadn't rooted for the filly, maybe it wouldn't have run so hard. And then, maybe, it wouldn't have broken its ankles and had to be put down.

I'm not saying its all my fault. That would be silly. But I bet it's at least partly my fault.

Also, there seems to be a pattern lately of horses breaking their legs while running. Maybe it's a conspiracy. Somebody should look into this.

I'd look into it myself, but I'm too busy right now trying to figure out why I just wasted 120 minutes of my life.

I still need to put in a Thursday and Friday beer report. I haven't forgotten.

But now I've got to start getting ready to go to my friend Eric's derby party. I may be accompanied, I may not be accompanied. I may have a second party to go to later, and I may not.

I have a feeling that, by the end of the day, I'll know what it feels like to juggle cats while having a nervous breakdown.

My brain is strange. I don't think that statement would surprise too many people who know me.

For example, I spent about half the day today wondering if I was thought to be gay. Then, I spent a good chunk of tonight wondering if I was thought to be a dick.

It's the latter thing that I want to write about now. The former thing was just silly. A fun little imaginary scenario that drove me nuts, but still silly.

The Dave is a dick thing is a little more serious to me. Because it might have actually happened. Be happening. Whatever.

See, one thing that my strange brain cannot do is read minds. Another thing is that it cannot reliably decipher vague messages. The lack of these abilities may be normal.

As if I'd know what normal is.

Anyway, the other night I got this email. Unfortunately I can't say, in this venue, what the email said. All I can say is that it was a little vague as to its meaning.

I immediately thought of, and assumed that the worst possible meaning was the correct meaning, and I responded appropriately. Or what I thought was appropriately.

That's how my brain works.

But then, earlier today, I thought of a second possible meaning. And then, tonight, I thought of a third possible meaning. All are equally possible, given the vague wording of the email, but taken in the context that is my life, there's about a 99.99% chance that I was correct with my initial assumption.

But what if I was wrong?

Well, if I was wrong, then I'm a dick for not responding in an appropriate manner.

It's only a .01% chance that I was wrong. But it's enough, I think, to keep me from getting any sleep tonight.

Good thing I don't have to work tomorrow.