I just had it for a second, maybe half a second, but I lost it again. That thought, that realization which just might be the key to this.

For just a brief moment, I was actually okay. I nearly stood up. But now it's gone again. And now I'm down again.

I think that very same thought right now and it feels like a lie. I realize that same realization right now, and it seems like an excuse.

Damn.

It's too hot to write anything. Maybe in the Fall, it won't be as hot.

St. Bernardus Prior 8

(bottle) Hazy brown, decent head that lasts forever. The aroma is mild, fairly malty and funky. Flavor is sharp - more hoppy bitterness than I was expecting, or desiring. Underlying flavors are raisins and a hint of coffee. This beer wasn't what I was expecting at all. Decent is all I can say.

I should really have known better than that. To write anything indicative of a crappy mood. Much better, I'm told, to just keep my big fat mouth shut. Or, better still, lie and be seen to tra-la-la my way through life.

Oh well, though. Can't be helped. I'm not deleting it now.

What I figured I'd do, instead, is write some more stuff. I figure that if I write enough it will push that drivel further and further down the page. Out of sight and therefore out of mind, because nobody ever bothers to scroll down. I mean, the scrollbar is way over there.

And, since I can't be bothered to be creative right now, I'll just post this stupid survey thingy I was messing with this morning.

Do you have any pets?
Three kitties!
What color shirt are you wearing?
Red. Who cares?
Name three things that are physically close to you:
My computer. Pictures on my cubicle wall. My phone.
What is the last book you read?
When You Are Engulfed in Flames, by David Sedaris.
Are you or were you a good student?
I was crappy in elementary school, but I made up for it later.
What's your favorite sport?
Pool. If you don't count pool as a sport, then baseball.
Do you enjoy sleeping late?
Of course.
What's the weather like right now?
Cloudy. It stormed this morning.
Who tells the best jokes?
I do.
What was the last thing you dreamed about?
I'm glad to say that I don't remember any of my recent dreams.
Do you drive? If so, have you ever crashed?
Yes, and yes.
Do you believe in karma?
Sometimes.
Do you believe in luck?
Yes.
Do you like your eggs scrambled or sunny side up?
Scrambled.
Do you collect anything? If so, what?
Lots of stuff.
Are you proud of yourself?
Sometimes I'm proud, other times I'm ashamed. Normal, I suppose.
Are you reliable?
Yes.
Have you ever given money to a bum?
Yes.
What's your favorite food?
I go through phases. Lately I've been on a Mexican-food binge.
Have you ever had a secret admirer?
Doubtful.
Do you like the smell of gasoline?
Stupid question. Nope.
Do like to draw?
I suck at it.
What's your favorite invention?
Like I care.
Is your room messy?
My bedroom is a mess.
What do you like better: oranges or apples?
Apples.
Do you give in easily?
Yes, except when I never give in.
Are you a good guesser?
I guessed you'd ask me that.
Can you read other people's expressions?
I'm pretty good at it, I think.
Are you a bully?
Nope.
Do you have a job?
Yep.
What time did you wake up this morning?
At 6:46, but then I hit snooze twice, so 7:16.
What did you eat for breakfast this morning?
Nothing this morning.
When was the last time you showered?
This morning.
What do you plan on doing tomorrow?
Nationwide killing spree.
What's your favorite day of the week and why?
They all suck, but I guess the weekends suck less.
Do you have any nicknames?
Probably.
Have you ever been scuba diving?
Snorkeling, yes, but not scuba diving.
What's your least favorite color?
Vomit.
Is there someone you have been constantly thinking about? If yes, who?
Duh.
Would you ever go skydiving?
Sure.
What toothpaste do you use?
I think it's some Arm & Hammer stuff.
Do you enjoy challenges?
Sure.
What's the worst injury you have had?
I broke my collarbone a couple of times when I was a kid. Almost lost my arm due to a cut when I was about 25. Most painful was when I broke my toe a couple of years ago.
What's the last movie you saw?
Jumper.
What do you want to know about the future?
Will the future ever make the present seem worth it?
What does your last text message say?
It was from God, and it said, "Fuck you, asshole!"
Who was the last person you spoke over the phone to?
Not counting work, BadPickleGirl.
What's your favorite school subject?
N/A
What's your least favorite school subject?
N/A
Would you rather have money or love?
Love.
What is your dream vacation?
I dunno.
What is your favorite animal?
Cats.
Do you miss anyone right now?
Duh.
What's the last sporting event you watched?
Part of a baseball game on TV the other day. I was bored.
Do you need to do laundry?
Always.
Do you listen to the radio?
Duh.
Where were you when 9/11 happened?
At work.
What do you do when vending machines steal your money?
Kill everyone within 50 feet.
Have you ever caught a butterfly?
Probably when I was a kid.
What color are your bed sheets?
Varies. Currently light gray with dark gray stripes.
What's your ringtone?
Varies. My favorite one is the Homer Simpson woo-hoo!
Who was the last person to make you laugh?
I don't know. Probably LaptopGirl.
Do you have any obsessions right now?
Duh.
Do you like things that glow in the dark?
Depends on what it is, I suppose.
What's your favorite fruity scent?
Like I care.
Do you watch cartoons?
Only if South Park counts as a cartoon.
Have you ever sat on a roof?
Yes.
Have you ever been to a different country?
Germany and Saudi Arabia.
Name three things in the world you dislike:
Violence because of religious differences, lagers, and ignorance because of religion.
Name three people in the world you dislike:
That one fucker, that other fucker, and that dipshit.
Has a rumor even been spread about you?
Constantly. Some of them are even true.
Do you like sushi?
Not so much.
Do you believe in magic?
If magic exists it must be very subtle, or we'd know about it by now.
Do you hold grudges?
Piss me off a little, and I'm very forgiving. Piss me off too much, or too often, and I'll hold a grudge for a very long time. Forever, perhaps.

It's floating all around me. Like memories of dreams that never came true.

These pitiful scraps cannot support me. Far too quickly, they become waterlogged and I cast them aside.

I abandon them as the failures that they are, and I resume my frantic search for something, anything that can withstand the burden that I am.

Help me to keep my head out of the water, for just a little while, so I can rest.

It was the Summer of 2003 when I got the idea to do this blogging thing. I'd just attended my high school reunion, and I'd had such a good time that I thought I should write it down. I'd been reading about this new (to me at least) blogging craze, and I already had a website of sorts. So, I figured, Why not?

As it turned out, I never did write about that high school reunion. And I didn't start writing here until a couple of months later. I did mention that reunion once, but I think that was it.

That was the first reunion I'd gone to. I'd never lived anywhere near here when the others were going on. But for the one in 2003 I was back in Southern Indiana, so I went. It was fun, like I said.

Now, it's 2008. Five years have gone by, and so now another high school reunion is approaching. This weekend, specifically. Friday is supposed to be casual hanging out at a bar, and Saturday is more formal. Waltzes or whatever.

My own thoughts about this reunion have been thus:

I'm soooo going.

I'm soooo not going.

I'm definitely going.

What's the point? I'm not going.

Okay, maybe I'll go.

No way am I going.

And so on and so on...

I think the thing is that I don't want to go by myself. I'm sick and tired of going places and doing things by myself. But there's nobody to take with me. It's something to which you take a wife or a girlfriend, and a quick search reveals none of those around. And I don't really think it's something to which you'd take a casual date, though I did consider that for a while.

My family and my friends tell me that I should go, at least to the casual Friday night thingy.

"Maybe you'll meet somebody," they always say.

They always say that, but that's not what they mean.

What they mean is, "Maybe you'll meet somebody else."

I've done a pretty good job of biting my tongue when I've heard that. People do mean well, for the most part.

Even when they're totally wrong.

Nope, not talking about me. Though that's certainly an understandable mistake.

I'm talking about my brother-in-law, Chris.

So Sunday evening we're all sitting on Dina's deck, mostly watching the kids splash each other in the pool, and all of a sudden I hear Dina shout out, "Chris, be careful!"

I glanced over toward Chris, and caught a glimpse of him falling off the deck. Then about a half-second later, I saw the extremely heavy wooden bench fall off the edge of the deck right after Chris. There were several loud thuds and maybe even a crack.

I think that, for a second or two, every single one of us figured Chris has just been killed right in front of us.

Dina, being younger, was faster than I was in getting up and running to where Chris had fallen. I was about a second behind. Chris's wife (my sister Neisha) was in the pool, as were all the kids.

But before anyone (except Dina) could really start to freak out, Chris announced, "I'm fine."

And, apparently, he was. Despite falling several feet at an odd angle and then having an 800-lb bench fall on top of him, Chris stood up, did a quick count of limbs and digits, and again announced that he was fine.

In fact, he was in much better shape than Dina was, what with the fifteen simultaneous heart attacks she was having. But all ended well.

So, whew! right?

The theory I came up with is that Chris is indestructible. Seeing several rocks, sticks, and other assorted improvisational weapons scattered about Dina's yard, I suggested that we should test my theory.

It would have been fun, I thought. But nobody else wanted to do it, so I left and went to Red Lobster for dinner instead.

You know what I've never really understood the appeal of?

Right!

First guess, too. I'm impressed.

Anal sex is correct.

I mean, for gay guys, I don't suppose they have much choice in the matter.

But when it's a guy with a girl, there's a perfectly good vagina right there. It's only a couple of inches away, fer chissakes.

I don't get it.

I never really enjoyed it, except vicariously I suppose.

And, if it never happens again, I won't miss it.

St. Bernardus Tripel

(bottle) Hazy gold. Large white head that was kind of a pain in the ass. A very nice aroma of citrus and spices and flowers. Mouthfeel was very fizzy. Flavor of apples and Belgian hops, but very well-balanced. The large yeast flakes at the bottom of the bottle really grossed me out. Still a damn fine beer.

Damn, I really thought I might write about something. But I forgot what that something was.

And so now I've got nothing to say. My stupid fingers are just tapping away at my keyboard, saying nothing at all. Stringing letters into words, words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs.

Maybe it will still count as an entry, when I'm done here. When this nervous energy flowing down my arms into my hands finally dissipates, maybe there'll be something. Anything.

Remember that line from that movie, in that place with those people?

Dave's not here, man.

Whatever, the point is that it's a fitting line. Because I'm most certainly not here at the moment. I kinda wish I knew where I was. I think I owe myself money. And a good ass-kicking.

Just got a fucking spam email. My computer did its little ding-dong thing, my heart did its little thumpthumpthumpthump thing. I was excited for a second there.

But no. It's just some dick spam. I get a lot of that.

Anyway, does this count as an entry?

Paragraphs strung together into an entry, perhaps?

Gasp gasp gurgle gurgle glub glub.

Lost Coast 8 Ball Stout

(bottle) Pours black, with a thin whitish head. Aroma and flavor of roasted malts and coffee. The coffee was very understated, so it didn't bother me at all. This is a very good malty stout. Extremely drinkable.

It's such a nice day outside. I need to go somewhere, anywhere that's not here. So I'm going. Probably to Dina's for a bit, at least.

I seem to have developed this annoying (to me) habit of just reposting old entries when I don't feel like writing anything new.

Well, here I go again. From last November:

I was talking to this girl tonight, about various topics ranging from my ass to how good I smelled, and eventually she asked me what it was that I wanted. As in, what did I want in a relationship?

I became a little tongue-tied. Which was strange because I've certainly thought about this subject a lot. Probably more than is healthy.

But, despite all of my thinking, I couldn't really come up with a definitive answer. All I could think of were examples from several diferent relationships. An amalgam of sorts.

---

Driving late at night, with her and the kids else asleep in the car. She counted on me to get us to our destination safely. She trusted me.

---

We'd watch a movie, and she'd lie on the couch with her head in my lap. She'd invariably fall asleep, and I'd be unable to move for hours. I could never bring myself to wake her, she was so pretty and peaceful.

---

She'd be feeling sad, and she'd lean her head against my shoulder and sigh.

---

She'd come into the bar and look around for anyone she knew, and she'd see me and she'd smile.

---

She came to me crying, and she hugged me, and she kissed me, and we made love. We didn't say a word to each other for hours, because we didn't need to.

---

She'd call me or text me whenever she wanted someone to talk to. I was always there for her.

---

That way she'd blush every single time I gave her even the slightest compliment.

---

Sparkles.

---

I talked to her, and it was like we were the only people on Earth. I had her complete attention, just as she had mine.

---

She was tired. I didn't even know her. But she slept leaning against me on the plane.

---

We talked for what seemed like hours, and our faces were so close that our lips were almost touching. Eventually, our lips did touch.

---

I grabbed her hand, finally, and she squeezed my hand soooo hard.

---

I'd look at her in a certain way, and her nipples would harden.

---

She could never simply touch me. There always had to be something more. Little circles she'd make with her fingers - they'd drive me insane.

---

She simply understood me.

---

She forgave me.

---

She loved me.

---

I'd watch her sleep, and all of the stress in my life would wash away like it was never even there.

---

That's what I want. More stuff like that, please.

I wake up underwater. I'm asleep one second, then the next second I'm disoriented and drowning. Struggling to survive, wondering if I have the strength, wondering if it's worth it.

So, that's not a lot of fun.

---

I've mentioned before how I can't stand to be away from my phone, for fear that I might miss a call or an email or a text from someone important. As this past week has been especially dramatic, I've taken to having my phone shoved up my ass when I shower, just so I'm sure that I won't miss anything.

Then, yesterday afternoon, I went to get my empty trash can from the end of my driveway. I'd been sitting in my garage, contemplating shit, and I left my phone where it was. I even remember telling myself, "Self, you idiot. Now just watch you'll get a call while you're getting your precious trash can."

So then I walked to the end of my driveway and back, and looked at my phone, and the fucking thing was blinking.

I only dropped it twice, fumbling to enter the password, so I'm getting better at that.

---

I did get another call later on. MixedSignalGirl called to check on me and say hello. We talked for an hour or so. I really screwed up with her, but she's happy now, and that's all that matters.

---

Then I got to go on a Super Top Secret Mission of Mystery, fraught with peril. It was fun, and there were no hitches. It was all very sneaky and clandestine. I wish we'd have worn ninja costumes, though. That would have been cool.

---

When I got back home, I sat on my swing and had about a bottle and a half of Left Hand Goosinator (115) and thought about the past and the future.

Not the present, though.

Fuck the present.

---

Friday night I rated my 496th beer. I've been thinking a lot about my 500th rating, which will probably happen this week. I want it to be something crappy, just because I think it would be funnier that way.

Because LaptopGirl is my official swill consultant, I have charged her with selecting the beer that will be my 500th. She suggested Lone Star. That's a good choice, though I'm not sure if I can get it around here. Her backup suggestion is Sapporo.

(Update: Her emergency fallback selection is MGD.)

(Update again: Or Mad Dog. I see her evil plan now. She's trying to drown me in swill. One way to get rid of me, I suppose, but there are more humane methods. I bet the Geneva Convention strictly prohibits drowning-by-swill.)

Anyway, I guess that's it.

I suppose that last night was one of those damn average nights at Rich O's. Better than I expected it to be, worse than I wanted it to be, the whole night just pretty much existed, and that was it.

I actually went there twice last night. I went after work, for about 30 seconds. Then I went back at 9:00 or so.

It's wasn't too crowded. I was able to grab a seat at the kiddie table fairly quickly. I had a Delirium Tremens (1394), and I talked to PlantDude, and I watched the door.

Fast-forward an hour or so, and the only thing that had changed was that I was having a new beer.

Grado Plato Strada San Felice

(draft) Not at all what I was expecting, as it was listed as "chestnut amber" on the beer board at Rich O's. Clear reddish amber in color. A pretty decent head that lasted throughout the glass. A faint fruity aroma - maybe cherries. Mouthfeel was medium-thick and clean. Flavor was very well-balanced. Malts and dark fruits and a tinge of hoppy bitterness. The finish was surprisingly fruity. A damn good beer.

After I got home at 11:30, I sat on my swing for several hours. I began composing a journal entry in my head. It was a good entry, I thought, but it was also a familiar entry. Too familiar.

Turns out I'd already written the damn thing, back in early 2007. The original version of this entry was much more rambling than the version I wrote in my head last night, but this last part was exactly the same.

The question was Why is it better to love and lose, than to never love at all?

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.

So last night I reposted an old entry about blindness. Then, this morning, I awoke to find myself blind in my left eye.

Pretty crappy coincidence, right?

Right.

I guess a few days ago, maybe Sunday or Monday, I either got something in my eye or I scratched my eye. Something happened, because it started to feel a little uncomfortable when I'd blink or whatever.

Over the past couple of days, It's gotten a little worse, as I'd poke and prod and just generally fuck with it. I checked it out thoroughly. I also washed it out under the kitchen faucet. I neither saw nor obviously dislodged any debris, so I figured I must have scratched it.

Anyway, last night I reposted that stuff about blindness, then this morning my left eye was almost completely swollen shut.

I looked like I'd just gone ten rounds in the boxing ring. Or I guess I looked like Will Smith did in that Hitch movie.

I couldn't see out of my left eye, because of the swelling and the mucous and whatnot, so I did the next best thing. I poked and prodded and fucked with it all morning. As RockGirl pointed out, I have a spare eye for when I ruin one.

Then today at lunch, I was having AlliGirl check out my eye. She said it looked "a little bad." Since this morning it had looked "really fucking bad," I went to the restroom, braced myself, and looked in the mirror.

It's a lot better now. I'm not nearly as hideous as I was this morning. Hideousness being totally relative, of course.

And it doesn't hurt as much when I fuck with it.

So I've cancelled my appointment to have my glass eye fitted. At least for now, I'm binocular again.

Update: I had the nurse at work flush it out with some battery acid. That hurt a lot, but now my eye is almost back to normal. Yay!

Please don't do it.

I wish I had some magic words, but I've already said too much. Way too much, and it still wasn't enough.

---

Got a nice black leather sofa from BadPickleGirl today. It's in my basement, where it will displace this one ugly chair, after I move the shelves away from that wall.

My cat Nugget is scared of the new sofa, of course. I'm hopeful that his fear will keep him from shredding it to bits. At least for a couple of weeks, until he figures out that it's leather and therefore edible.

---

Dammit, this is supposed to be my fucking journal. My fucking outlet. It's not supposed to be some stage where I perform for my audience's amusement. And there's definitely no fucking script.

---

One of the ways that I know I'm in a very weird mood is when I start thinking in metaphors. Like tonight, I started thinking about how I jumped out of a perfectly good lifeboat because I thought I saw the glimmer of a lighthouse on the horizon.

The lifeboat moved away, and the glimmer proved false, and now my lungs fill with water.

Sometimes metaphors are fun. And sometimes they're useful.

And sometimes they're nothing but stupid.

---

I pretty much have to accept that people lied to me for years. I wonder why they did that. Was it to make me feel better? Was it to get me to shut the fuck up?

Or maybe, just maybe, they didn't know they were lying at all.

---

I've been on-call all week. It blows.

---

Speaking of glimmers, I like this entry, from 2005:

When you live your life in total darkness, it doesn't take much.

The smallest spark, the slightest flash of light, can capture your full attention. Even after it's gone, the memory of that flash lives on.

Sometimes that flash is welcomed, but most times, most times it's only reminding you of what's missing.

A man gone blind does not always wish for sight, for there can be comfort in the dark.

Acceptance. Tranquility. Peace. All erased by a spark, a glimmer, a splash of light that does nothing but burn the retinas and leave ghost images floating and intruding.

A flash is nothing by itself. It's over in an instant. But the memory of it lingers, and the blind man sometimes wishes he could forget.

---

I should try to sleep now. I hope I don't dream.

One time this guy was at the gas station, and he ran into a girl he'd dated a long time ago. The girl tried to talk to him, but the guy was totally disgusted by the girl's painted-on eyebrows, so he went home instead of talking.

The moral of this story is that having a great ass doesn't make up for being a total weirdo.

Would you rather have a fun fling or a lasting relationship?
Flings are for kids. I haven't been a kid for a long time.
What was your longest relationship?
I knew you were going to ask that. Right at two years. Or maybe four years. Depends on how you count.
What is your favorite personality trait?
Sweetness.
What is the most romantic thing a significant other could do?
One time a girl filled my house up with balloons when I was at pool league. That was pretty romantic.
When you are dating someone, what is the most important thing to you?
Comfortable intimacy.
Do you like pet names (ex: baby, sweetheart...)?
Sure, I suppose. I mean, I usually use them.
What is your ideal night out with a significant other?
Varies.
What is your ideal night in with a significant other?
Varies.
Would you be able to tell someone you love them, even if you didn't feel it?
Every time I've said those words, I've truly believed them. I'd never lie about something like that.
Do you like relationships that involve serious commitments?
Yes.
If you ever got engaged, how would you want it to happen?
I'd want to ask, then I'd want her to say yes. And I'd want her to refrain from issuing bullshit last-minute demands that she knew I'd never agree to.
If you were engaged, would you want a wedding as soon as possible?
I think I'd leave that decision up to my bride, but my own preference would be to marry sooner rather than later. Once you figure out who you want to spend the rest of your life with, you want the rest of your life to start right away.
Do you like to talk about the future when in a serious relationship?
In a serious relationship, I like to talk about all sorts of things. Everything should be fair game.
Do you prefer a sensitive open relationship or a strong silent type?
The former. And I just figured out that a chick wrote this survey.
When in a relationship do you have to have contact with your partner on a daily basis?
Unless there's a good reason, daily contact should happen naturally. When it feels forced, then something is probably wrong.
Do you like public displays of affection?
Occasionally. It depends. Hand-holding and brief kisses in a bar are okay. Anal sex on the subway is bad.
Is there anything you won't tolerate while in a relationship?
Infidelity.
What is one thing that you value most in a relationship?
Honesty.
Would you ever be able to handle a long-distance situation?
I suppose it would depend on the situation. It would certainly be tough.
Do you believe in moving in together before engagement or marriage?
It's 2008, I think living together before marriage is almost mandatory these days.

Sometime during the late 60s, I was a kid. I don't really know if it was the 1760s or the 1960s or the 1460s or whatever - it was a long time ago, plastic was invented. More specifically, plastic milk jugs were invented.

My parents, apparently, thought this was the greatest invention ever, beating sliced bread by a half-mile at least. Or maybe it was just my mom that loved the things. I can't really imagine that Dad cared one way or another.

Anyway, Mom, at least, loved the things. Our refrigerator was always full of them. And they, in turn, were full of various random liquids. Only one of which was ever actual milk.

I have very few really clear memories of being that young. I remember seeing my mom holding my baby sister. I remember seeing the first man walk on the Moon. I remember running through a sliding-glass door. And I also remember grabbing the wrong plastic milk jug, three times.

These occasions were all pretty much the same. I'd stumble out of bed at the crack of 10:00 AM or something like that. Dad would be at work. Mom would be at work. Since, even at that young age, I knew that starving to death would be unpleasant, I'd make myself some breakfast.

When you're six years old-ish, making breakfast really means pouring a bowl of cereal and milk.

That was always the plan, anyway.

And, usually, that's the way it worked out.

The first time that plan failed. It was a Honeycomb day. Dad must have gotten a bonus or something, because Honeycomb cereal was a very rare treat to us. I remember, several times, getting up extra early, like at 9:59, so that I could get to the Honeycomb before my sister ate it all.

Anyway, one morning I grabbed a box of Honeycomb, and I grabbed a bowl, and I grabbed a spoon, and I grabbed a plastic milk jug from the fridge. I sat at the little white table that was reserved for us kids (because we were such precious snowflakes) and I made myself some breakfast.

I don't think that my mouth was more than halfway closed on that first bite before I knew that something was terribly wrong.

Not Milk.

Orange Juice.

Let me tell you something. Orange juice is good. Honeycomb cereal is good. But the two combined?

Not so good.

That was the first time.

The second time it was generic Cheerios and tea.

The third time it was, once again, generic Cheerios. But the third time it was, instead of milk, it was chocolate milk.

And it was fucking yummy.

I want some right now.

Today, I caved on the whole beer thing. I had myself a Stupid Arrogant Bastard (66). I actually ordered it like that, with capitalization and everything.

It wasn't too bad. I might even like it if they'd take out half the hops.

But then I did something stupid. I'd bought two bottles of Stone Smoked Porter to bring home, and I totally forgot them when I left.

And now I can't seem to motivate myself to go back and get them.

(Update: Okay, so I went back and got my beers. Never before have I moved so qiuckly - I bet I was in and out of there in less than a minute.)

So today was probably the last AlliDay ever. Though I guess there may be one more, next week. AlliGirl is changing shifts and won't be working Wednesday day-shift anymore.

Wednesday. What a boring word that is. And, from now on, it will probably be a boring day.

My Newcastle (10200), by the way, was yummy.

So I've been thinking about having a midlife crisis. I suppose I'm about due, as I haven't had one since I first moved to Seattle. I tried to have one a few years ago, but it never did catch on.

That Seattle midlife crisis was fun, maybe I could have fun again.

Anyway, I remember seeing a video on the internet, a long time ago. This dude was sitting on a motorcycle in a driveway, revving it up and showing off or something, and he did something wrong and smashed into the garage door.

I think it killed him, so it probably wasn't as funny as it would have otherwise been.

I'm pretty sure that, should my new midlife crisis hold a psychological gun to my head and force me to buy a motorcycle, I'm pretty sure that I'd at least do better than that guy did. I don't think I'd crash into my garage door. Nope, I've always pictured myself as being one of those guys who'd run over an acorn or something and that would cause me to wipe out and kill myself.

I'd probably be better off with a Corvette. I think a Corvette would be pretty much acorn-proof. Unless there was a whole shitload of them. Part of some vast conspiracy, perhaps.

Plus, I think chicks dig Corvettes even more than motorcycles.

(Update: I've been informed that motorcycles are more attractive, in general. But I think I'll stick with my opinion, because I believe that the attractiveness of being a living person vs. being a corpse would far outweigh that of having two wheels vs. four.)

Went to Rich O's today, after work. And, for the first time in a long time, I saw absolutely nothing appealing on the board. I'd been kinda craving a Weihenstephaner, but that keg had blown. I'd kinda been craving a draft Marzen, but that keg hasn't arrived yet. Yesterday I had an NABC Flat Tyre (1009), but I didn't feel like having another one today.

The beer board looked so uninteresting to me that I actually considered having an Arrogant Bastard. But then I remembered that I don't like Arrogant Bastard all that much.

So I ended up just driving home.

At least tomorrow is AlliDay, so I'll get to have a yummy Newcastle.

Is it weird, that I have this urge to publish, but not to write?

I think it's weird.

Anyway, here's what I wrote about a dream I once had. This was in 2006, a period otherwise known as an asstillion years ago.

I only turned my back for a second, and they all died. All of the hot girls, dead.

This party had suddenly taken a very bad turn.

What could I have been thinking? Rat poison is, by definition, poison, and who was I to say which small amount might be safe and which would not? Which would bring a nice high and which would bring death?

As I moved my hand over their bodies to check for any remaining signs of life, of hope, it was as if darkness flowed out from my fingers and onto everything around me.

I could no longer see their faces.

This might normally have been considered a good thing, what with them being dead and all. But this time, this time it was not. For as I reached to check for a pulse, I instead found the toothy grimace of agonizing death, seemingly about to bite down and rip at my flesh. Instead of the faintest of breaths, I instead found hands contorted by pain into claws that seemed to grasp at me, as if to pull me in with them.

But it was only my imagination. The dead do not bite. The dead do not grasp.

The darkness flowing from me continued to spread. The lamp in the corner served only to illuminate itself - its light no longer reached the walls, or the floor, or the ceiling. Or the grotesque scene on the bed.

I knew that I had to get away from there, from that macabre display, from the darkness.

So I ran.

I ran, and the darkness continued to flow from my body. It became an expanding wake of nothingness which I pulled along behind me.

I ran faster.

I ran as fast as my legs would carry me, but it was not fast enough. I bent forward, and I began to use my arms as well. I dug my fingers into the ground and I pulled with my arms as mightily as I pushed with my legs. I became something else. Something no longer human. A beast. Running from darkness that I myself had created, that I myself continued to spread.

A moment of clarity struck me.

I stopped.

The darkness caught up with me, surrounded me, enveloped me. It began to contract and flow back into me.

As I stood, panting, in that shrinking circle of darkness, I saw lights in the distance.

Then I woke up.

I miss dreaming.

I still don't feel like writing anything new, but this old entry from January is pretty fucking apropos. Or however you spell that.

I deny this new reality, and it slams into me.

---

Today was, of course, AlliDay.It wasn't too bad at The Pub. A little more crowded than I'd have preferred, and one shithead took my seat while I was outside making a phone call. But I got to talk to AlliGirl in little snippets, and her sunny disposition helped to brighten my mood a little. Also, it was freaking cold today.

---

I refuse this new reality, and it slams into me.

---

I also found out something pretty interesting and a little intriguing. Some little gestures, which I never really paid any attention to at all, back when they were happening. I've always admitted that I have a problem taking hints. This may have just been more of that, but I really think that it was more of a timing problem. Like, six hours earlier, and everything might have turned out quite differently. But, by the time the gestures started happening, it was too late. I was utterly distracted by then. Oh well. I'd have only given us about a week, anyway.

---

I ignore this new reality, and it slams into me.

---

After work, I stopped at Rich O's for a beer and a pizza. I had several insane minutes when I first arrived, but it really wasn't that big of a deal. Just me, being weird. Plus, I had PearlGirl look, and she verified what I'd been babbling about.

The resemblance was really uncanny.

---

I reject this new reality, and it slams into me.

---

I might get to see HatGirl this weekend. It's been a million gazillion years. Seems that way, anyway. I hope hope hope I get to see her.

---

I doubt this new reality, and it slams into me.

---

Tomorrow is Thursday. VacuumLady will come and clean my house and terrorize my cats for a while. I'll come home and immediately start slobbing the place up again. It's the kitchen that I can't seem to keep up with. And my bedroom. Those damn piles of laundry are back with a vengeance.

---

I am riddled with holes, yet I still stand. It's not that I'm particularly strong, I don't think. That's not why I'm, successfully so far, refusing to let myself fall. Again. Over this. It's just that I know that my falling would serve no purpose except to make things worse than they already are. And it would also prove Everyone On Earth right. I refuse to fall and, by refusing, I laugh in the face of Everyone On Earth. The fuckers.

---

I've been having a problem with sleep lately, and I think I've figured out why. Because, waking up to this new reality, that's the worst time for me. This is something that's certainly different, this time around.

My mind still clouded by the fading fog of sleep, only the most powerful thoughts shine through. And I feel myself falling, sliding, de-evolving into that past version of myself that nobody liked very much. That I didn't like very much. So I fight with everything that I have, and it always seems touch and go for those first few minutes while the fog fades away. Then, somehow, so far anyway, I emerge triumphant.

So, I don't think it's really sleep that's the problem. It's the fear of waking up that's getting to me.

---

I accept this new reality, and still, it keeps fucking relentlessly slamming into me.

Okay, so I've lost all motivation for this journal. For a lot of things. I need to step back for a while.

As anyone who's read me for any length of time knows, I write more goodly when I'm in a bad mood.

Now, it's been a while since I've written anything goodly. Over a year, I think. I say, I think, because to actually go back and check would be hard and stuff.

This past January sucked - maybe I wrote goodly in January.

Anywhozit.

Crap, what was I going to write about?

Oh, yeah. My previous entry.

I wonder who knows what the fuck that's all about. I've written the same kind of entry three times now. They have all meant the same thing.

I'm not ashamed.

This time, I went almost 1,200 days, but then I cried. Like a fucking baby. Saturday afternoon to be precise, a little before 5:00 PM. I had a good fucking reason, and anyone who disagrees can feel free to blow me. And maybe trade lives with me for a while. To see if he/she can stand it as well as I have.

One thousand one hundred and ninety-six days, seventeen hours, eleven minutes and four seconds...

One thousand one hundred and ninety-six days, seventeen hours, eleven minutes and five seconds...

One thousand one hundred and ninety-six days, seventeen hours, eleven minutes and six seconds...

...

...

...

Damn.

One second...

Two seconds...

...

...

...

Damn.

The thing is, I don't. Not any more. Not for a long time now.

My reasons were, and are, myriad.

Mostly, I just knew that it was wrong. I knew it was a lie. I knew it was a betrayal. I knew it was a waste of time.

So, I stopped. A long time ago.

It was a long time ago. Probably right after that comet smashed into the Earth, and while the remaining dinosaurs were wondering, with their walnut-sized brains, What the fuck was that noise? And what happened to the Sun? And why is it so cold?

Back then, I had kids. They were my ex-wife's kids, to be specific, but I counted them as mine. Fuck, my daughter I got to see being born, so blow me if you don't think I had the right to count myself as a parent.

Anyway, my kids, and all kids I guess, they had this thing they'd do. This warning of sorts. Whenever they'd be hurt or upset, they'd start to scream. But it was almost never immediate. Nope, they'd inhale first. And, the longer they'd inhale, the more piercing the inevitable scream would be.

A couple of seconds? A normal scream.

A minute? A terrible, horrible scream.

My daughter would, I shit you not, inhale for an hour and a half sometimes. And then she'd let loose. And everything good in the world would wither and die, after briefly wishing it had never been born in the first place.

I think I started inhaling a few weeks ago.

I can feel this scream building within me.

I wouldn't want to be around me when I finally let loose.

I, unfortunately, have no choice. I have to be present. But everyone else? Everyone else should stay the fuck away.

It's coming.

You know the ironic thing about silence?

It's fucking deafening.

And darkness?

Blinding.

Not that I know anything, but I do think some stuff, sometimes. And every now and then it's useful, to think stuff.

Usually not, but sometimes.

Like maybe every full Moon, like tonight.

Maybe the trick is to look at things objectively. To step outside, then turn around and take a good look at myself and my life.

Objectively, I'm the luckiest man on Earth. I absolutely do not deserve what I have.

So why, I wonder, why do I constantly find myself struggling to stay afloat in this damn sea of sadness that surrounds me?

I don't like that metaphor. It sounded better in my head. Please disregard it.

Anyway.

I've always been, in my deepest core, a pessimist. The worst is what's expected, what's expected is the worst. That's just the way I roll. It's safer that way, I've always thought, when I bothered to think about it at all. Usually it's just been something that is, like my height or my hair color.

Lately, though, I've found myself having hope of all things. For what, exactly, I don't know. It varies. It's always something good, though.

Happiness or some mythical shit like that.

Objectively, I'm the luckiest man on Earth.

Subjectively, I want to crawl into a hole and die.

So, there's a bit of a conflict there. I'm dealing with it, as well as I can.

Mostly by drinking beer, though denial is another important tool. As is this little trick I like to call selective memory.

You know a good way to tell when I'm in a weird mood?

When I start writing a bunch of single-sentence paragraphs.

That information does me no good.

What would do me some good would be hearing about all of the other things.

Like, tell me about how she jerked her head up every time the door darkened.

Or tell me about how her heart skipped a beat every time she heard a new voice, one that might belong to me.

Or describe how she glared at her phone, and wished it would do something besides just sit there being lame.

That's the kind of information that would do me some good.

And if none of that stuff actually happened?

Well, then lie to me. For sometimes the truth isn't enough.

Today I picked up my new painting, by MisunderstoodGirl.

Because I'm all cultured and shit.

I get nervous, sometimes. Like right now. And last week. And last month. And for the last year or so.

I really and truly thought that everything was out in the open. I really and truly thought that the truth was the one thing I didn't need to worry about.

Well, apparently, I was wrong.

---

I don't know if I'm ever going to get around to finishing my Atlanta entries. I must have 2,000 words worth of notes, but I have zero motivation to edit those notes into anything reasonable. I drank beer. I lamented the severe shortage of LaptopGirls and HatGirls in Atlanta. There was never a drop of hot water in my hotel room. I was pretty much miserable the entire time.

---

Then, MixedSignalGirl got married in Jeffersonville, while I sat in the Atlanta airport. I should have been there for her happy day. I should have been there for her. I should have been there for myself. But, I wasn't there. And it was only a coincidence that allowed me to use "but I'm in Atlanta" as an excuse.

---

I really thought I'd have more crap to write tonight. Maybe later.

I think that I'm getting sick of being a grouch. I think that I want to be in a good mood again.

So, I think that's what I'll do.

Yep, that's definitely what I'll do.

I'm in such a weird mood tonight. Even for me.

---

I remember the last time I was in this particular mood. It was on a nice night that should have been a horrible night. I'm pretty sure, looking back, that I was in total denial. I wrote this, back then:

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

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

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

And me?

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

---

Sometimes I catch myself thinking that it doesn't matter what I write. That it's how I write that I should be concerned with.

Like, if my words dance and flow with each other, then maybe the actual content won't matter that much.

I have so many things I want to say. Perhaps I should stop worrying about the words I use, and just let the feelings flow.

---

I saw a shooting star tonight, when I first ventured out onto my swing. I thought about someone who's having surgery in the near future, and I wished for her to not be afraid.

---

It's impossible to not notice, the way things have started to disintegrate lately. I mention those things, and I'm called crazy. But, to me, that's not an insult at all - I've been crazy for a very long time. I'm used to it. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

I estimate that about 1% of the world will find this funny.

This idea was totally stolen from some guy at fark.com.

This was stuck at the bottom of some dick spam I got just now.

I wish I could write as eloquently as this.

She had grown up anyhow. Her brain void of all vainly tries to resolve. Imagine a short old man, towards him. He had thought that kundadhara would, like fire hidden in a well, we have, indeed, exposed the mighty armed hero, accompanied by those princes, her head was perilously near to his shoulder. One's eye is withdrawn from him, is really like food distributed at gaya's sacrifices. And they evening Henry sat alone by Rose, who had fallen and Rachel were closely associated, and they performed and learning and supported by all our warriors. Host's family with whom I had yet been able to vedic mantras become necessary for enabling persons as the travelers had supposed on seeing nearly passing his time in the nether region. Freed from.

Just beautiful.

Anyway.

Something good? I can only write about it if it's totally irrelevant.

Something bad? I can't write about those things at all.

Something medium? Sure, I can write about that. As long as I make it as boring as possible.

Ta-da!

Crap crapity crap!

So there I was, sitting on my swing and enjoying a lovely Malheur 10 (96). Counting lightning bugs, glaring at my phone, whistling for the neighbor's dog.

I was having a nice night, but then something horrible happened.

My fancy Gulden Draak glass, still almost full of yummy beer, suddenly leapt from its position between my thighs and flung itself onto the bricks at my feet.

Shattered, into a hundred pieces. The beer draining into the spaces between the bricks before I could even think of getting my tongue down there.

It all happened so fast.

Why? Why did my glass take its own life like that?

*sniff* I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye.

I wish I'd known that something was wrong.

I wish I'd known what danger signs to look for.

And I definitely fucking wish it had waited until it was empty, instead of taking ten ounces of yummy Malheur 10 with it.

Such a waste.

I'm not really sure where to start with this. I suppose that the beginning would be the logical place. But what was the beginning?

Maybe it was when I got onto the plane in Louisville, and this one hot chick (who's chair I once stole at Sluttopia) was sitting across the aisle from me.

Small world, as they say.

There was a another hot girl, this one sitting right next to me on the plane. But I couldn't tell how old she was so I didn't drool too much. She had very pretty legs, I couldn't help but notice. I mean, they were right there. Taunting me.

So then we landed in Atlanta. An uneventful flight, just the way I like my flights to be. We taxied to the gate and stopped about 50 feet short of it.

Did I mention that, about when we landed, it started storming like crazy? As in, like a motherfucker?

Well, it did. It was storming so badly that they shut the airport down. No take-offs. No landings. And, most relevant to me, none of those cute little airport gnomes on the tarmac to guide planes into the gates.

So, we sat. For about 45 minutes.

That sucked, by the way.

Welcome to Atlanta.

Not.

After we finally were allowed to dock at the gate, and after I finally got my baggage and my rental car, I drove 40 or so miles to Norcross, where my hotel was.

One interesting thing about driving for two hours in the pouring rain on an unfamiliar freeway amidst a million other cars - it's not as much fun as it seems like it would be. But I eventually found my hotel and checked-in. Then I threw my shit down and went back out into the rain.

I drove around for about three hours, looking for a Taco Mac. That's a chain down there that has, or so I'd heard, good food and great beer selections. Well, I ended up getting hopelessly lost, and I never did find a Taco Mac.

I did, however, find a Krystal, which was almost as good. I hadn't had Krystal since 1998 when I lived in Memphis.

My cheeseburgers were yummy.

My fries were kinda greasy.

Yeah.

So MixedSignalGirl got married yesterday.

That is all.

Well, fuck.

UPDATE: Never mind.

You ever find yourself at an airport with some time to kill, so you just sit around watching people?

Yeah, me too.

You ever see a guy in purple parachute-pants, a yellow wife-beater shirt, and the name "Adrian" tattooed on his arm, and say to yourself, "Self, there goes the gayest guy on Earth?"

Yeah, me too.

Then did you ever turn your head at a squishy/slurpy sound, and see a guy walking down through the airport with four dicks in his mouth? And then did you say to yourself, "Self, you were totally wrong before. That's the gayest guy on Earth, right there."

Yeah, me too.

---

Anyway, I'm back home now.

This sucks.

I don't want to go. But I also know that, once I get about halfway there, I'll start to get excited.

And then I'll probably have some fucking fun or something. It'll be like I'm being unfaithful to my regular life, seeing another life behind its back. And then I'll feel guilty about it.

Anyway, I guess I'm leaving now. Gotta stop and get some cash before I go to the airport.

I'll try to update this thing while I'm gone.

This sucks. I don't want to go. Alone.

I think it's cute that she falls asleep.

Tomorrow, I have to go to Atlanta.

I don't want to go.

They're making me.

Also, HatGirl is lucky.

I was up to Saturday night with these ramblings, and then I stopped. I don't know why I stopped. Because, after all, absolutely nothing happened Saturday night. I myself stayed home and made gift baskets for orphans all night long.

If you think that anything happened Saturday night, then you're clearly smoking crack and you should seek professional help.

---

So then Sunday I ended up going to Don Pablo's for dinner. I got to see NotHideousGirl for the first time in a million years, and I got to eat yummy food. So there.

Then I went across the street to Hooters and had some Newcastles (10008) and talked to this one dude I went to school with.

You may notice that I passed 10,000 ounces of Newcastle. This doesn't count, though, because I was supposed to save that occasion for AlliDay. I screwed up, and it was only because AlliGirl is so nice that I was given a do-over.

---

Let's see, Monday night I had one of the new beers that I'd bought Saturday at Barley Island.

Barley Island Bourbon Barrel-Aged Oatmeal Stout

(bottle) Black with thin tan head. Mild aroma of bourbon. Medium mouthfeel. Flavor more intense and bourbony that the aroma had hinted. As an oatmeal stout, there isn't much flavor except for the bourbon. Pretty good, though gimmicky.

Then yesterday after work I had another new beer for me.

Victory Golden Monkey

(draft) Pours clear and golden with a large long-lasting head. Nice aroma of apple peels and malts. Smooth and creamy mouthfeel. Flavor more malty than most tripels, maybe some caramel in there that coats the mouth. Quite damn good.

---

And then today, for AlliDay, I had my official 10,000th ounce of Newcastle (10028). There was a big party with balloons and dancing girls. It was fantastic.

Okay, what really happened was that AlliGirl bought my beer for me and gave me a hug. Still pretty damn cool, though.

---

The dude I talked to Sunday reminded me that my high school reunion is approaching in less than three weeks. I guess I don't care. I had originally planned to go, but I don't want to go by myself.

So, basically, waaaaah!

---

Tomorrow I go to Atlanta. It might be fun, but I doubt that I'll find myself in Atlanta, either.

I feel pretty good about myself tonight.

Weird, I know.

At first I thought that I might be having a stroke, but nope, it's actual satisfaction that I'm feeling. Towards myself of all people.

I was actually useful to someone who's very important to me. And I was actually appreciated.

Wow.

Of all of the mysteries that have plagued mankind since the beginning of time, there's never been one as vexing as this:

How much money will a Rich O's growler hold, when filled to the top with random coins?

One hundred ninety-six dollars and seventy-four cents, that's how much.

Next up, I'll cure cancer.

Now, where was I?

Oh yeah, at the stupid depressing park.

I'd gone there, as I'd gone to Polly's Freeze earlier, looking for myself.

I wasn't at either place. I remember running into myself once a long time ago. At Rich O's of all places. That was nice, but that was also the last time.

Anyway, by the time I'd returned home from the floodwall park, it was clear to me that there was a 0% chance that anything good would happen Friday night. Understandable, but of course disappointing. Because of this, I saw no reason to bother leaving my house at all. So that's precisely what I didn't do at all. Instead, I sat on my swing and I glared at my phone and I had three yummy bottles of Delirium Nocturnum (157), and that was it.

Then by Saturday at around noon, I'd once again gleaned that there was a 0% chance of anything good happening. Still understandable, still disappointing. But whereas on Friday that 0% had caused me to lose all motivation, on Saturday I couldn't run out the door and jump into my truck fast enough.

Luckily, I always carry a spare pair of pants in my truck, for times such as that. When I don't want to waste time putting on pants before I leave my house.

What I did, and this really was a spur of the moment decision, was I drove up to Noblesville, Indiana. To the Barley Island brewpub, specifically. Just something to do, really. I might just as well have picked Oaken Barrel, as it's slightly closer to home, but I had Barley Island on my mind because LaptopGirl had been raving about their Barfly IPA.

The drive up took a couple of hours. It was uneventful, though I felt bad because I kept getting emails but I was driving and couldn't type my responses very well. I managed to survive the drive* though. I even managed to respond to some of the emails, when the traffic and the rain let up enough.

The first thing I noticed, upon entering the brewpub, was that it was really dark. Like being inside a cave at midnight with my eyes closed and a bag over my head. But then my eyes started to adjust, and I was able to grope and stumble my way, around a bunch of empty tables and up an unfortunately-placed step, to the bar area.

I only took one picture, and it's a pretty crappy picture, even by my standards.

The first thing I did, after seating myself, was order a trio of small samples, of the three available draft selections that I hadn't had before.

Barley Island Sheet Metal Blonde

(draft) Color of hazy grapefruit juice. Light citrus aroma. Very light citrus flavor, with a bit of sourness, like grapefruit juice. Good, not great.

Barley Island Blind Tiger Pale Ale

(draft) Clear light brown. No detectable aroma or flavor. There was a slightly bitter hoppy finish, but not enough to be completely disgusting. A waste of my time.

Barley Island Barfly IPA

(draft) The color of clear weak tea. Light aroma of floral hops. Medium mouthfeel. Flavor decent but mild. The slightly bitter finish went away after a few sips. Maybe a good session beer.

I went ahead and ordered a full glass of the Barfly (20), and enjoyed that with my yummy burger and fries. I traded a bunch more emails with LaptopGirl, and a few with RockGirl.

I relaxed fairly well I suppose, but I could already tell that I wouldn't be staying. I guess I'd been hoping to find myself, up there away from all of the distractions of home. But I wasn't there, either. I'm still a slippery bastard I guess.

So next I had a Dirty Helen (400), which is one of my favorite brown ales. And then I had something I wasn't expecting. The place had a couple of guest beers available, and one of those guest beers was an all-time favorite of mine. So my last beer was an incredibly yummy Two Brothers Domaine DuPage French Style Country Ale (310).

Before I left, I bought a couple of bottles to have at home sometime. I also picked up a growler of the Barfly for LaptopGirl.

The drive home was uneventful.

* - Poet and don't know it.

Then, after I visited the creepy zombie clubhouse, I continued the short distance down the road to the park.

I'm pretty sure that the park has a name, but I can't remember what that name is. Probably named after some dipshit with money.

Back when I was a teenager, right after the last ice age, I'd come down to the floodwall fairly often. Note that it was the floodwall then, not a park. At least once every weekend we'd go down there. Lots of kids my age went down there. We'd shoot the shit. Drink our illegally-obtained beer, smoke cigarettes like chimneys. Make out, have sex sometimes. We were kids - we did kid stuff.

But then, shortly after I left home to join the Air Force, a lot of crap happened down at the floodwall.

Some assholes decided to make it into a park.

And not only that, they decided to make it into the worst park ever.

It closes at dusk now. Before, the fun didn't even start until hours later. Now, I think they're allowed to shoot you if you go there after dark.

They constructed all this new shit. Seating and a bandstand and shit like that. Before, it was just a bunch of concrete pillars you could climb on.

Anyway, here are some pictures I took.

This is the Sherman Minton Bridge. It's how I-64 connects Indiana and Kentucky. Everyone takes pictures of this bridge, when they're down at the floodwall park. I think it's a rule or something. I drive across this bridge every day going to and coming from work.

Looking upriver, once can see another bridge. I think this is the K&I bridge, used for trains only. Though I think I've heard mumblings about maybe opening the old car lanes up to pedestrians and bicyclists. I have very dim memories of riding across that bridge with my parents when I was very young. I remember that you could see right through the road into the water, as the road surface consisted only of metal grating.

By far the most noticeable "improvement" they've made down here is this monstrosity.

Again, there used to be nothing here but pillars you could climb on. It was a gazillion times better then.

At the very top of the earthen floodwall, there's a platform thingy. I climbed to the top and took this next picture.

Dedicated stalkers will, of course, recognize my truck parked way down there on the road.

The top of the floodwall used to be reserved for starry-eyed couples. Now they've gone and made it accessible for everyone.

But hey, it's not all bad I guess. That playground looks kinda fun.

---

The whole thing was just very depressing to me. Yet another part of my adolescence that's gone for good.

There was an old man. He was sitting on a bench near where I parked my truck, just sitting and watching the river flow by.

I imagined him as a future version of myself. Just sitting and watching the water pass him by, and remembering everything else that had passed him by over the years.

The old man glared at me when I parked my truck, for intruding into his world like that. I think he just wanted to be left alone, so that's what I did.

When I climbed to the top of the platform thingy, he was gone. Maybe he jumped into the river, or maybe one of his girlfriends came and picked him up. I'll never know. Either way, I'll never see that old man again, nor he I. And that makes me sad. I bet it'd be cool to have a beer with him.

Okay, so Friday sucked, Saturday sucked, and Sunday isn't looking too good, either.

Is that enough? Does that count as an entry?

No?

Okay, fine.

I already mentioned that I went to the river Friday. Specifically, I went to this depressing little park that they've built on the river-side of the floodwall.

But before I got to the park, I stopped at this creepy little building and took some pictures. See, RockGirl has been sending me pictures of all these neat scary old buildings where she lives. So I figured I'd reciprocate a little.

That's a little building next to the river, on the same road that the park is on. I must have passed it a zillion times in my youth, but I'd never taken a good look at it before.

I like the way they did masonry back in the olden days. Even for a crappy little building like this, they added some class and took pride in their work.

One very weird thing was that I saw an old potty chair through the partly-open door.

Whereas the old abandoned buildings in RockGirl's area are huge zombie fortresses, she said this building looked more like a zombie clubhouse. But I guess it's actually just an old pumping station. A zombie clubhouse would be cool, though.

I think I'll put the stuff about the actual park in another entry.

You know, it's days like this that I really miss my dad.

Not that he would understand me any more than anyone else has.

But he'd fucking believe me. And I bet he wouldn't even roll his eyes.

I miss my dad.

So Superman fell from a horse, and he broke his neck and became paralyzed. Because of those things, he was labeled a hero.

I, on the other hand, fell from the clouds, and I broke my soul. Because of those things, I was labeled a pitiable loser.

---

I have this stupid sense of entitlement sometimes. I really hate it.

Because I know it's bullshit.

Just ask my dad if it's bullshit. Oh wait, you can't, because he worked hard his whole fucking life and then just dropped dead one Thursday evening.

Or ask my nephew if it's bullshit. Oh wait, you can't, because he kept his nose clean all throughout his adolescence and was as ready for adulthood as anyone, but then he was killed in a car accident late on a Friday night.

You're supposed to work hard, for a long time, and then you're supposed to be rewarded for your efforts?

You're supposed to suffer unimaginable anguish, and then things are supposed to work out so your suffering was worth it?

Bullshit. That guy Job, from the bible, can suck my dick.

What really happens, most of the time, is that all of your hard work and all of your suffering - they mean not a fucking thing.

The universe doesn't care how hard you've worked. And the universe sure as fuck doesn't care what you're been through. Fuck, it was the universe that put you through all the crap in the first place.

I hate feeling like this. Like my own years of suffering are worth a flying fuck to anyone or anything. It's bullshit, and I know it, but I can't shake it.

I want some fucking justification, dammit. I've fucking earned it. I'm fucking waiting.

When do I get to look at my life, realize how wonderful it is, and say that it was worth all the anguish?

Huh? Answer me that, universe. You fucking cocksucker.

The thing is, I don't think I have anything to say. Or maybe there's plenty to say, but nothing I'm willing to say here.

Yeah, I bet that's it.

My mind is swarming with unpleasant thoughts today. That, and thoughts of tiredness, since I haven't slept since an aborted attempt at a nap Thursday afternoon.

But I'm trying to cope. Trying to find some sense of self. I went to Polly's for lunch. Didn't help. I went down to the river and that certainly didn't help. I might do an entry about that someday. I took pictures.

I'm back home now. Lost inside my own head, clawing at these walls, trying to find a door so I can step outside and have a smoke or something. To get away from this barrage of thoughts, for just a few short minutes, would be so nice. Maybe then I could sleep.

I've recently been told that, as a blogger, I'm actually expected to write stuff.

So okay fine. I'll write something. Plus, I'm waiting for some clothes to dry.

I wasn't going to write about this at all, but my hand has now been forced, and I'll look like a wimp if I don't write about it. So, like I said, I'll write something.

The other night I was out on my swing. I love my swing on the warm Summer nights. I can sit out there with a nice beer and I can play fetch with the neighbor's dog and I can contemplate the universe.

I can also have nice little email conversations and occasional phone conversations, though the latter are fairly rare these days.

So the other night I was having a nice little email conversation with LaptopGirl. I think I must have bored her because she disappeared on me. Then, the next day, she said she'd fallen asleep. I've heard of this sleep thing. I even seem to have some vague memories of doing it myself, but I can't be sure. Those may be false memories implanted by aliens, or the media, or maybe the alien media.

Anyway, after I'd bored LaptopGirl into Snoozytown (pop: everyone but me) my phone rang. A number that I don't have in my phone's memory. Instead, a number that's burned into my brain.

MixedSignalGirl.

Yay?

We had the world's shortest phone conversation. And that was probably a good thing because I was having a hard time holding onto the phone anyway. Because our last conversation hadn't gone very well. This one was better, and shorter.

Me: Hello?

MSG: Are you at home?

Me: I'm out on my swing.

MSG: Save me a seat.

Me: Don't come here.

MSG: I'm on my way. (click)

So I figured that I had some choices.

First, I could spontaneously burst into flames. I tried that for a few seconds, but I must have been doing it wrong because all that happened was that I peed my pants a little.

Second, I could run into my house and turn off all the lights and hide. I didn't really consider this, once I remembered that MixedSignalGirl probably still has a key to my house and she knows the alarm code.

Third, I could be a man and just sit and wait for her. That's what I decided to do. I mean, what was the worst thing that could happen?

The next day I emailed RockGirl about the visit. Here's an edited version of that email.

Well, she came over. Just like she still did it all the time. Just like she still had every right to come over whenever she felt like it.

I didn't know what to expect. I thought maybe she was going to throw herself at me and say she was moving back here. I thought that maybe she was going to show up with her boyfriend and force me to meet him. (deleted)

It wasn't nearly as dramatic as any of that. It was a lot like the olden days. She pulled in the driveway and parked in front of the detached garage. She waved at me on my swing. She got out of her car and plopped down next to me and said , "Hi!"

Just like it hadn't been a million years, since she'd sat on that swing with me.

We had a couple beers. She stayed until a little before 3:00. Nothing happened. We just sat and talked about the olden days and what had gone wrong and what had been happening with her and with me. (deleted) She told me about how wonderful her boyfriend is, and I managed to be happy for her about that. Even though I don't believe it, not really. We talked about my nephew Cory and how Dina is still struggling to deal with that loss.

All she really wanted to do was see me and make sure I didn't hate her for moving away and for finding someone new. And her boyfriend is arriving in town today, so last night was the only opportunity she had to see me. I told her that of course I didn't hate her. But I also didn't tell her that I love her. (deleted)

I gave her a hug when she left. I think she was feeling better. I'm not sure that I was, but at least I wasn't feeling any worse.

And now I've written something.

I'm going to Atlanta for a couple of days next week.

Why would I go to Atlanta? Why would I go to Atlanta in July? Isn't that city often called Hotlanta?

These are all legitimate questions, to be sure.

I'm going there for work. At least for some meetings I have on Friday. But I'm flying down Thursday and leaving Saturday, so I'll have Thursday and Friday nights to try to enjoy myself.

The Braves will be out of town, so maybe I'll go to some bars. You know, just for a change of pace.

I suppose that, when you're dying in the desert, a mirage is better than nothing.

Even when you recognize it for what it is, even when you realize that it's not real at all, it's still a goal of sorts.

Worth scrambling toward, because it's something to do, at least.

Better than dying and desiccating in place, without even trying to survive.

I'm so thirsty.

Heh.

The subject of this entry is funny to me. I don't know why.

---

Monday was, by any definition you want to use, a wasted day.

I mean, I couldn't even make myself sad when I wanted. And that used to be my faithful standby mood. Today, I didn't even have that to fall back upon. I remained numb all day long.

---

I figure that 99% of my brain has, rather suddenly over the past few days, been left with nothing to do. That's a pretty big chunk. I find myself worrying and/or wondering what's going to happen, now that I've got all this extra processing power.

Something bad, that's my guess.

---

A cornered animal will always fight back. Though it may be terrified, and though it may be doomed, a cornered animal will always go out with a fight.

Snapping teeth and slashing claws. Squeaks turned into roars by desperation.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm being cornered. With nothing left to lose.

I don't like this feeling, and I wish it would go away. It's not appropriate. I have plenty left to lose.

---

Did I ever mention that I'd like to win the lottery and retire?

Well, I would like to do those things.