Maybe, if I were to issue a hearty fuck you to this little censorship demon or whatever that lives inside my head and eats delicious words before I can get them written, maybe I'd write something like this.
Yesterday I spent a lot of time thinking about some overlaps between what are otherwise two very different thoughts.
If I can just keep from ruining everything, and keep being my wonderful self in the meantime, then eventually she'll come around. And hey, even if she doesn't come around, then at least we'll get to keep hanging out.
If Dave can just keep from ruining everything, and keep being his wonderful self in the meantime, then eventually he'll get over it. And hey, even if he doesn't ever get over it, then at least we'll get to keep hanging out.
See the overlaps? See them?!? Aren't they cool? I mean, except for the part about me ruining everything. I don't know why it's assumed that any ruination will necessarily have to be my fault.
I could probably write a long entry about this. But I won't.
Okay, so now that it's been established that my value is less than $35.00, I wonder what I am worth.
Not a single one of HatGirl's so-called friends showed up for her bachelorette party. I am so sad for her, and so angry at her so-called friends, that it's actually taking my mind off of my own problems. Imagine that.
I really did have fun at the thingy yesterday. I don't believe that she thought I had fun, but I did.
I guess I should have just stayed in Louisville last night. I bet AlliGirl and CoolHairGirl were working. But I had no way of knowing that Rich O's was going to be such a flop. Shit, I actually thought it might be good. Maybe that'll teach me to be an optimist. I really should know better by now.
Been trying to figure out what to write about this. My ability to think coherently is gone, but not my urge to write. This is a problem.
Sometimes I can just start typing and when I'm done it's halfway decent. Not usually, but sometimes. I'm trying that right now - just letting my fingers do whatever they want. Looks like words are stringing along, so maybe it's working.
I became invisible tonight. To three different people. Each among my favorite people on Earth, but to them, I am an afterthought. Compare me to anyone else - a random bar asshole, a bum from the street - anyone at all, and I'm going to fall short. And I'm going to be ignored.
Wait, ignored isn't the right word. That implies intent and effort, and most of the time I don't think I warrant either.
Sometimes I do think that I'm being purposefully reminded of my place in the hierarchy of things, when this happens. Sometimes I think it's done on purpose, but usually not. Usually I think it's subconscious and unintentional. I'm not sure which is worse. I mean, would you rather have someone tell that you're only useful as a last resort, or simply imply it through their actions?
It's not exactly fun, either way.
I was trying to think if anything happened today, besides the funfest that was work.
But then I remembered that I got to talk to HatGirl on the phone after work.
I feel bad because not many people are going to her bachelorette party. If I was a girl, I'd go. Because, duh, it's HatGirl!
I asked her if she'd reminded everyone, when she sent the invitations, that she's HatGirl, and she said that it was implied.
I'm thinking that it must not have been implied very well or more girls would be going to HatGirl's party.
I was going to go to Rich O's for some spaghetti after work. My spaghetti plans were detoured yesterday, and I was still craving it.
There was a stupid traffic jam on the highway leading toward Rich O's, so I just came straight home.
And there was a stupid traffic jam on the highway leading home, too. So that sucked.
Anyway, now I'm starving to death.
I wonder what cat food tastes like. That's all there is in this house.
A wise man once wrote, "Hope is a strange thing. It exists only to disappoint, for once it's fulfilled, it vanishes."
I'm not exactly sure what that (clearly drunk) wise man was getting at, but I have a theory.
The thing about hope, I think, is that there's only one way to completely destroy it. And that's to fulfill it. Anything else, anything less, and it's going to survive.
Disappointments will devastate, but a spark of hope will survive, and then grow. Setbacks will shatter, but a tiny glimmer of hope will survive, and then grow. Failure will, um, do something bad that starts with "f" but hope will still survive, and then grow.
Anyway, NakedGirl told me tonight that, "There's nothing wrong with a little hope."
I tend to agree with her. Good thing, too. Because, even after everything I've seen and heard and felt, I still have hope. And, more than that, I like having hope, misguided as it may be.
It's at least something.
I tried living with nothing, and it sucked. Big ones.
I cannot imagine going back to a life without hope. If such an existence could even be called life. But I suppose that I'd give it a shot, if I had to.
If all my hopes were fulfilled, and they all vanished, I guess I could try to live with that.
I thought, just for kicks and to see what happened, that I'd try to catch this damn thing up on what's happened in the last week or so.
Tuesday, September 16
A bunch of stuff I can't write about, and then I got my power back at 8:30, then more stuff I can't write about.
Wednesday, September 17
Stuff I can't write about, then I got to have lunch with HatGirl. Yay!
Then I got really really depressed. And then, while I was at Rich O's, some more stuff happened that I can't write about, but it put me in a better mood.
Then I got stuck doing some stuff for work, or maybe some other stuff might have happened. I couldn't have written about it though.
Thursday, September 18
I don't think anything happened all day, except that after work I got to do some stuff I can't write about, and it was a lot of fun.
Friday, September 19
I'd allowed myself to have hope. That was stupid. Friday was a very very sad day for me. Move along, please.
Saturday, September 20
I got to have lunch with HatGirl. Yay! But I already wrote about that, kinda. There was a picture.
Then Saturday night I sat around Rich O's and glared at my phone for hours, then I got to do something I can't write about, but it was really nice. Then when I got back home I did something stupid.
Sunday, September 21
A sad day. I even went on a rant, but I can't write about it.
Monday, September 22
Rich O's was out of every beer I've ever liked, but then I got to do something I can't write about. Found out some bad news that I can't write about.
Then, in an ironic twist, MisunderstoodGirl showed that she doesn't understand me at all.
Tuesday, September 23
A bunch of irrelevant stuff that I can't write about, then some bullshit that I can neither figure out nor write about.
The first time, I was in a crappy mood, and I did my writing elsewhere.
The second time, I was in a weird mood, and I wrote this:
The minutes take eternities to pass, but somehow the years rush by.The third time, I totally spaced it off until days later.
Two years have passed in the blink of a teary eye.
I never thought it would happen. I fought for so long, I convinced myself that I was winning. I faked a smile for so long, I convinced myself that I was happy. I fell for so long, I convinced myself that I was flying.
I never thought it would happen. I never thought it could happen.
But it did.
My world still reverberates from the force of that impact.
I don't want to say any more.
I've already said too much, yet I could never never never say enough.
Those two words would lead to those three words would lead to a billion more words, and still it would not be enough.
And now it's the fourth time, that this date has come around. I finally feel like I've said everything there is to say. But it's still not enough.
This is the activity taking place outside my building this morning.
I have no idea what these people are doing. I just hope they get all that shit off the road before the afternoon rush hour.
I haven't done one of these for a couple of years, but it's time. It's definitely time.
I'm taking some time off. You won't be missing anything.
Or maybe not.
Sometimes it really irritates me, being unable to write the things that I most want to write.
But I should get over it.
Also, I don't like stupid games.
Sitting at Rich O's, at night. Stupid, I know. I was going to sit over on the
weirdo Sportstime side, but they were packed. Over here, at least I'm able to sit.
Anyway, I kinda feel like I should be writing something about some thoughts that have been rattling around in the dark places inside my head. Thoughts that will neither go away nor venture into the light. Because these thoughts have never been fully illuminated, I fear that this entry will probably be disjointed crap. This is in contrast to my usual drivel, which is at least somewhat jointed, and sometimes it's not even crap. You have been warned.
The thing is, I only meant to make a statement. To finally get the entire truth out there. I'd say something like laying all my cards on the table, but this is no fucking game to me.
I realized that I was taking a very serious risk, but frankly, at the time, I didn't feel like I had much left to lose. I was rapidly dying anyway. So it was, at least partly, an act of desperation on my part, the statement that I made. I guess I wanted my dying words to mean something. More than that, I wanted them to be heard. And they were. They certainly were.
But all along, from the time I started considering it, through the time I was saying it, and even during the conversation that ensued, it was always a statement. Telling the truth, and nothing else.
It was never a question.
It was certainly never a request.
So why, I wonder, why do I wait so impatiently for an answer to a question I never asked?
Why, I wonder, do I long for a response to a request I never made?
This is my dilemma.
I could have asked the question, but the question wasn't the point. The statement was the point. Besides, deep down I knew that I wasn't ready for the pain that the answer might bring. I could have even made the request, but it would have been ludicrous to do so, without the answer to the question. I may be insane, but I'm not that insane.
The statement leads to the question leads to the request. That's just the way it works. And I stopped at the statement. I stopped myself, or she stopped me. I don't know. All I know is that I did stop, rather abruptly. Jarringly, you might say.
Which was fine with me. That had been my plan, such as it was, when I started. But I screwed up. I wasn't thinking clearly. I was distracted, after all.
See, I didn't need to ask the question, and I didn't need to make the request.
They were implied. Or inferred. Whatever.
And so, now I wait. For an answer to a question I never quite asked, and for a response to a request I never quite made.
This is my dilemma. This is my life.
Had lunch with HatGirl today.
Usually, I have something extra to add, whenever I mention HatGirl. But this time, I'll let her awesome t-shirt say it for me.
Got to have lunch with HatGirl Wednesday. So that was an awesome surprise. And we're having lunch again Saturday, so yay!
Then I had a long-overdue talk with TremensGirl after work. The overdue part could basically be summed-up as I'm a dick.
The other part of the conversation consisted of me asking, "What's wrong with me?" and TremensGirl essentially replying, "Everything."
So, that sucked, though I can't say I was really surprised. At least she didn't suggest that I misrepresent myself. Nope, she said that I needed to actually change who I am and what I feel. Like I wouldn't have done that a million years ago if I knew how.
But it was a nice conversation, and I really appreciate her candor.
I think I've slept about two hours per night starting Monday night. Surprisingly, this isn't even close to my personal worst, but I'm still pretty damn tired.
I have no middle anymore. It's a really disconcerting feeling, jumping from one extreme to another with nothing in between.
Oh yeah, I got to see OddlyFamiliarGirl Wednesday night! It had been a million bazillion years.
This is stupid. I have nothing to say.
Well, I did it.
I said the most important words I've ever said, to the most wonderful person I've ever known.
I told her everything. Ev. Rey. Thing.
I just don't know.
I've got nothing left. I've done all I can do. I've said all I can say.
Maybe I've ruined everything. But if I did, at least it was with the truth. If those words turn out to be my final words to her*, then it's fitting that they were also the most important. The most real.
And the most overdue. Mustn't forget that.
It's so tempting to stop now. Writing. Talking. Communicating in any way with anyone at all.
It all seems so trivial to me now.
Lesser purposes and all that...
* - They were not.
A long time ago, before I was even born if you can believe that, I guess a bunch of people wore buttons saying "I like Ike."
You know, because of Eisenhower or however it's spelled.
Well, I think I'd like to introduce a new button. Mine will say "Ike can suck my hairy ass."
You know, because of the hurricane.
For those just tuning in, I live in Southern Indiana. Tornado country. Maybe earthquake country. But not fucking hurricane country.
Well, somebody must have missed a memo or something. That damn hurricane Ike refused to die after wreaking havoc down South where it belonged. Nope, it continued Northeasterly with its hurricane-force winds, and wreaked havoc upon the Louisville area too. Upon my area.
Everybody is affected. Some in worse ways than others. I, for example, have not had power since noon on Sunday (UPDATE: Power came back at 8:30 PM Tuesday). I lost some big-ass branches, and a couple of big trees either fell or split in half. There are millions of twigs and leaves littering my lawn, and some in my living room that are really perplexing me.
But all of that I can deal with. The thing I may not be able to deal with is this:
That, readers, is my swing. Or the pile of rubble formerly known as my swing. Fucking Ike took it out completely. Ripped it right out of the ground.
I'm sad about this. Much sadder, I'm sure, than I should be. "It was just a swing, after all," people will say.
But, to me, it was really much more than that. To me, standing there Sunday afternoon, it was almost like I'd lost a friend.
I couldn't help but think of the dozens of times I'd sat on that swing with MixedSignalGirl, or the millions of times I'd sat there without LaptopGirl, or all of the other times when I'd just go out there to relax and not think about anything for a while.
It just makes me sad that it's gone.
Let me put it this way: If Ike had destroyed my house, and my detached garage, and my swing - I'd replace my swing first and then worry about the trivial structures.
I wrote the above, in my little notebook, while sitting in that same coffee shop, next to that same lovely companion. Trying to feed off her creativity, I suppose, and not really succeeding. I was distracted, after all.
Now I'm across the street at Bearno's. Drinking a Goose Island Honker's Ale (132), scribbling in this notebook, and watching my phone. There's a chance that I might hear from her again tonight. There's a smaller chance that I might get to see her again tonight. So I'm waiting.
There's no sense in going home. No power there, and not even a single bar of reception on my Blackberry - just "SOS."
And, of course, she's not there either. So, I'll wait for a while. She's worth it.
That's what it says right on every bottle of Stone Arrogant Bastard: You're not worthy
Pretty clever thing, if you ask me. Take a playful jab at your potential customers. Challenge them, dare them to try to drink you.
Anyway, I'm not worthy, apparently.
I bought two 22 oz. bottles of the stuff last night. My plan had been to (a) sit on my swing, (b) glare at my phone, and (c) get as plastered as a lightweight like me can get.
What actually happened, though, was that I had one bottle of the stuff (88), then about four ounces of the second bottle (92) and that was it. I didn't get plastered. Not on 26 ounces of 7.2% beer. But I did get a little queasy in my stomach. That's when I realized that I hadn't eaten a single speck of food all day. Nothing since 6:30 Friday night, actually, when I'd had a little pizza at Rich O's.
So the final part of my grand plan was amended to (c) drink some water.
I'm worthy of water, in case you doubted that.
Somebody needs to say it. I shouldn't be the one. My objectivity would be doubted, and with good reason.
But just because I can't be totally objective doesn't mean that I can't be right.
Abusive relationships take many forms. Some are easier to recognize than others. The symptoms vary, but they all have the same solution.
I would say the same thing to anyone.
This is what has become of me. I exist for one reason.
To search, forever, for something that isn't there.
I need to stop searching, but I don't think I can.
It's too late. I'm in too deep. I can't stop. I can't give up. I won't.
Maybe there's nothing, but it's all I have.
Got an email from HatGirl this morning.
Got lots of emails from her, actually, but one in particular was hilarious.
She told me that she'd reserved a seat for me, at her wedding reception, at a table for her special friends. This table is in the front of the room, probably so she can keep an eye on us in case we get out of line. But there's also an element of honor involved.
But that part was sweet. It wasn't the hilarious part.
The hilarious part was where there was another seat, presumably next to mine, reserved for "Dave's guest."
The reason, of course, that this is hilarious, is that the only person who would accompany me is already busy that night.
I know she's busy that night, because she's the bride.
So I invited someone else. The girl I really want to go with anyway. Her acceptance is extremely unlikely, but stranger things have happened.
Maybe, just in case, I should go get one of those blow-up dolls. Probably better than sitting at the reception alone like a chump.
The weather page thingy says 87 degrees tomorrow, but with a 30% chance of showers and thunderstorms.
That latter part sucks, by the way. We're supposed to go do something tomorrow. I've only been looking forward to it for weeks.
So I don't know if we're going to do it or not. I guess I'll find out.
UPDATE: We're not, but not because of the stupid weather. Because of stupid work commitments.
I don't think it would come as a surprise to anyone who knows me. I'm in a fucked-up situation these days.
I spend an inordinate amount of my time looking for, I dunno, something.
For what exactly, I can't say, because I don't know what it is. I think that I might be looking for what's left. Something that survived that terrible flood. A recognizable chuck of debris on the bank, perhaps. Just something to remind me, though I could never forget.
The rest of the time, I wait.
For what? Again, I don't know. I don't know what it is, but I'm waiting for it right now.
I had a really good day today, but I guess I'm having a bad night. My moods bend in the slightest breeze. So tonight, I'm depressed. No big surprise there, I don't suppose. Except to me, because the cause of my mood is different than usual.
Today, it's neither the pain of the past nor the agony of the present hammering away at my mood. Nope, today it's the future, of all things, that torments my thoughts.
The thing about the future is that I'm not really sure there's going to be one.
I think that, today, I'm going to shut my cat Buddy in the basement when I get home. That way, he won't be able to fight with Nugget, and that way, I'll be able to take an actual nap.
I can't remember ever being this tired, except maybe the first time we all went to Philadelphia for work, a few years ago.
And, speaking of Philadelphia, we're all supposed to go back there in January. Oh boy! Philadelphia in January!
I'm pushing to just have us do the work from here. There's no reason that any of have to actually be in Philadelphia. But I push for this every year, and it never does any good. We always have to go.
Anyway, today I had a nice lunch with her at Hard Rock. With my potato skins, I had a Blue Moon (883) that was pretty damn tasty. My company was lovely as always.
I seem to have lost the ability to tell when someone is kidding. Or maybe I never really had that ability. This was the second day in a row that she totally fooled me with her kidding. My working theory about this is that, because I always expect the absolute worst, that's why I take this kidding seriously.
What might be an interesting experiment would be to be kidded about something good. But then I'd have to face the disappointment when the farce was revealed. And I'm pretty sure that my disappointment quota for this century is already used up.
I guess there's no way to win unless I turn into an optimist so I can recognize kidding. Not much chance of that happening.
I'm rambling because I'm tired.
I had a good day.
I should be careful, a guy could really get used to days like this.
A guy could find himself in serious trouble.
Okay, guess where I am, as I write this. Not my actual physical location, but guess what kind of place I'm in.
You guessed that I was in a bar, didn't you?
I'm in a coffee house!
And I guess it's a Christian coffee house, or that's what I'm told anyway. Not that that matters to me one way or the other. It's the being in a coffee house that make this weird for me. I'm pretty sure that this is the first time I've ever graced such as establishment with my presence. Despite having lived in Seattle for six years.
Anyway, I'm here because I was invited, sort of. Or maybe I invited myself. Hard to tell sometimes.
I feel like some kind of hippie or something. I wonder if I should start hating myself. I also have a strong urge to smoke a clove cigarette, but they don't allow any smoking in here. I think that's part of the Christian coffee house thing they've got going.
Also, I hate coffee!
But, of course, I'm not here for the coffee, or even for the nonsmoking or the Christian music playing softly. I'm here for the company, and she's lovely.
So, I'm writing this on the back of an old carshow flyer from 2002, using a pen from that same era. I'm doing these things because my aforementioned lovely companion says I can't use her pen, nor can I have a sheet of paper. So I found an old pen and some old flyers in my glove compartment.*
Lovely, but stingy, apparently.
I'm drinking this fancy hippie soda named Bawl's Guarana. I don't know why - I just picked it. Maybe because of the pretty blue bottle. It says "High Caffeine Guarana Beverage" on the label. So that might be good, to have some extra caffeine. I was up late last night, and up early this morning.
Since we've been sitting here, two different women have walked in looking like they're having the worst day of their lives. I feel like I should go offer them a hug or something, but (a) I'm not one to go around hugging strangers, and (b) they look like they're bitches.
And now I feel a little useless. I don't want to bother my lovely companion with my inane chatter. She's trying to work, after all. I just leafed through an entire chick magazine, but that didn't really make me feel any more useful. Not a lot of call for magazine-leafer-throughers these days, I don't think.
I'm not bored though. I mean, I am here after all. So it could be much much worse. Like I could be somewhere else and not have such a pretty girl for company.
This fancy caffeine soda isn't all that good. Tastes kinda like flat Sprite.
Wow, I've managed to fill up this entire sheet of paper with my scribblings. I thought for a second about just scanning it and then posting the image, but I don't think I want anyone to know just how bad my penmanship is.
And now, I've got a decision to make. Do I start writing on the back of this second sheet of paper, or do I stop?
I'm pretty sure that no lives will be saved or lost as a result of my decision, but it could definitely affect how bad these
craps cramps in my hand get.
Heh, when I first wrote the word cramps I accidentally wrote craps instead.
Like I had craps in my hand.
* - She was kidding, and I was totally fooled by her kidding. Of course she would have let me use her pen, and a sheet of paper.
It turns out that HairCutLady is still very much alive and in business. She just had her phone disconnected because they doubled her monthly rate.
I keep hearing about things I'd never do, or that I would definitely do. Depends on the actual things.
The point is that I keep hearing things that make me think I'm a good person. A better person.
What the point should be is that it's not a contest. And another point should be that, if it was a contest, then I lost a long time ago.
As of tonight, it's been four weeks since my friend WomanRepellant died.
Since I'm in a crappy mood anyway, I figured I'd crack open a bottle of Avery The Reverend (625) and have another conversation with his ghost.
I hope he's been doing okay. I hope he took my advice, four weeks ago, to go and haunt pretty girls for a while. I know that's what I'd do if I were a ghost.
UPDATE: It was a nice talk. Even though I got distracted by some emails, he understood. And I certainly understood when he looked at his ghostly watch, muttered something about NotHideousGirl taking a shower, and vanished in a puff of fog.
He may have been a dirty old man, but he was my friend, and I miss him.
You can go here if you're bored. There are old entries.
Looks like several months of not even touching the guitar did absolutely nothing to help my playing.
But now I've got myself a doohickey. An Effects Processor or some such. MusicalYuppieDude gave it to me. It looks like a pretty complicated piece of gadgetry. I'm pretty sure I'd need a pilot's license to fully understand everything it can do, but the main thing that it can do for me is that it can let me play my electric guitar with headphones.
Before, in case you've forgotten, I couldn't play the thing because my amp always had this very loud hum. For a while I had everything shoved into a corner of my basement where the hum was more tolerable, but it really was never acceptable. Plus, I wanted to mess with the guitar in my living room while I watched some guitar-lesson DVDs.
Now I can do that.
And there's a chance, I'm thinking, that I might be able to hook my amp up to the thing as well. Before I can try that I need to get another cable, though.
And then maybe I'll learn how to play. Would that be something?
Watch out, I'm in a mood.
Sadness finally decided to take a break from constantly kicking me in the guts. So that's cool. Or at least it would be cool, if futility hadn't stepped right in to take over the job. To finish the job, perhaps.
But hey, who am I to complain? I keep saying I like this crap. I keep saying that it's better than the fucking nothing I felt for so many years.
I keep saying those things. Every now and then I even believe one or both of them.
Besides, some things deserve to be felt. Not distracted away or bottled up or ignored.
One of the things I keep catching myself thinking, even though I know that thinking is a really stupid thing for me to be doing, is that if things were different, things would be different.
Why I keep thinking that, I have no idea. I mean, there's absolutley zero evidence that things would be different just because things were different.
In my more lucid moments, I think that things will be exactly the same, no matter how different things are.
That's depressing to me. Because I don't exactly enjoy things all that much. Things suck, to be honest.
I think this was the third time I've been in the newspaper. At least the third time. One time I drove my car off a cliff in Seattle. Another time StoreGirl and I were at Rich O's when a local paper came in to do a story about the place.
The third time was today. Click the picture for the entire article, while it lasts.
This was an article about Rich O's and its owner Roger. I was mentioned in the first sentence and I was quoted a couple of times.
Also today, I got to talk to SassyGirl for a while! We'd been texting back and forth, and eventually I got sick of that and just called her ass up. She and JauntyGirl are doing well, but they're far away from here, so it's a very mixed blessing.
The rest of the day was kinda disappointing, except I got a sweet email while I was taking a nap. Maybe I'll have more to write before I go to bed. Don't hold your breath, though.
Sometimes, I get myself into the perfect mood.
That's why I go there after work, to search for that mood. To search for myself.
It didn't start that way. I used to go there after work for a stupid reason.
But now, it's to find myself, and to remember who it is that I truly am.
Because even if I'm a selfish asshole, I'm still me.
A couple of hours ago I got a rather unsettling email.
"Yikes!" I exclaimed.
Then I had 15 heart attacks.
Luckily for me, I thought to ask for clarification, or the heart attacks might be ongoing still.
Anyway, I'm wondering about the etymology of the word "yikes."
I know I could just look it up, but that would be hard and stuff, and the answer would probably be boring.
I'm wondering if there's such a thing as a single yike, or if it's like pants and only exists in plural form.
I like puns. The punnier the better.
Today I thought of a really punny pun. Now all I have to do is wait for an opportunity to spring it on some unsuspecting soul.
Do you think they have puns in other languages?
They probably have them, but I might not like them as much. All those damn foreign words sound alike anyway.
So two freakazoids just rang my doorbell.
I don't know what they wanted, because I didn't answer the door. I just glared at them through slitted blinds as they shambled away, on foot.
Boo Radley's got nothing on me.
I used to notice this totally stupid and juvenile thing, play this stupid and juvenile game.
The first time was when I was in basic training. Every Sunday we'd go to chapel, mostly because it was something to do. We'd get to basically dick around for a couple of hours before returning to the discipline and the rigors that made up our normal itinerary.
This one time, I was sitting in chapel, and for some reason I turned around. My hot girl radar, perhaps, but I'm not sure I even had hot girl radar back then. I mean, I was an 18-year-old, a walking bag of hormones, stuck with 49 other guys for almost 24 hours a day. Every girl was hot.
Anyway, this one Sunday I turned around for some reason, and I saw her. The most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. And she was a black girl, which was weird to me back then. Not that she was black, but that I found her so attractive. And attractive wasn't even close to the proper word.
I remember thinking, then and there, that girl is the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.
Then, about six years later, I was at the rec center at Offutt AFB shooting pool with my friend Paul. This girl came in. She had blonde hair, and she had a little baby with her. She was wearing sweats and no makeup and her hair suggested that she'd just arisen from a nap.
But she glowed. Oh, how she glowed.
I remember thinking, then and there, that girl is the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.
A few years after that, it was a girl I saw at the mall in Omaha. A few years after that, it was a bartender in Seattle. Next was a girl pumping gas in Louisville. Each and every one somehow outshining the ones before them. Each and every one becoming the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen, up to that point.
It was almost five years ago, the last time I mentally crowned a new beauty queen. Since then, it's always been the same girl. Each and every time I've seen her, since the first time, she's managed to outshine my memory of her. Each and every time, I've thought to myself, that girl is the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.
That particular stupid juvenile game is over. It was pointless and silly to begin with, and now it's even moreso. What's the sense in playing when the winner is predetermined?
This entry is going to get me into trouble, even though I say nice things in it. Even though I say true things in it. But the situation is already fubar, and I'm getting a little tired of tiptoeing around.
This blog is supposed to be my outlet, dammit. Well, I'm outletting something right now.
One of the really fun* things about being me, being in a mood like I'm in tonight - not sad, not happy, resigned is probably a good word - is trying to imagine some scenario wherein all this ends well.
I used to be able to come up with such scenarios, and sometimes I'd even manage to cough up a smidgen of hope. But that was before and this is after.
Also, I seem to have lost the ability to predict, with any accuracy, my own reactions to certain events. This really blows**, by the way. I envision certain events happening, I'd guess, at least three or four more times. Each time will be tough, to be sure, but what I don't know is if they will be easier or harder than this time. Harder would suck, because I'm barely surviving this time. Easier would still suck, just not as hard. I worry about this a lot.
Man, I'm in a weird mood. I wish I could write instead of ramble.
Remember that damn kite? I'm like that tonight. But last time it was a good thing, this time it's not. Last time it was strength that made me that way. This time it's fear and denial. It's necessary denial, if I want to get through this. But the fear is pissing me off, because I don't know what to fear. If I fucking knew what to fear, well then maybe I could wish for something else. Sacrifice a chicken*** or something to help it happen.
I guess if I really were that kite, I'd want my string back. It may have been an anchor, but it was also a lifeline.
Man, I'm in a weird mood.
But seriously, if there's a way out of this, I'd really really love to know what it is. Because I can't think of shit.
* - That was sarcasm.
** - That wasn't sarcasm.
*** - I'd never really do that.
First, about my last entry - I've decided that I shouldn't write shit. So I won't.
I said today, in an email, that I rarely get angry.
That was the truth. I don't get angry very often. Oh, I wish I could get good and pissed* at times. I think it would make life easier for me. Sad is hard to do, day after day after day after fucking day. Anger would be easier to deal with, I think.
But, anger is usually beyond me. Except when it's directed at me. And I don't want to write about that. I think I've done enough of that over the years.
What I want to write about is being irritated.
I've got that down pretty well, I think.
The thing that I'm irritated about right now - or I guess it was last night but I'm thinking about it right now - is that simple expressions of simple affection are denied me. Not, I don't think, because there's nothing to express. Nope, I'm pretty sure that there's some affection there. Boring platonic affection, but still pretty fucking awesome, considering the source.
But that same source won't give me a hug. Not unless I force the issue. And it always feel like force. Like I'm doing something wrong. Taking unwanted advantage of simple boring platonic affection. Copping a feel or getting some perverted thrill or something.
I'm not doing any of those things, but I know why the concern is there. The concern is there because of these more-than-friends feelings that I have. The concern is there because of that sobbing wretch down in the dungeon of my mind.
Well, the thing is, that guy can barely breathe, let alone participate in a hug.
Anyway, that's what's irritated me lately. And now, by writing this entry, I'm only going to make things worse.
* - American meaning, not British meaning.
Still trying to absorb last night, and still trying to figure out what I can write and what I should write.
I think it's perfectly safe to say that it was the best night I've had in a long time.
It usually hits me at night, like most things. I'll be downstairs shooting pool and it'll hit me, and I'll nearly drop my cue. I'll be out on my swing and it'll hit me, and my swing will coast to a stop. Or I'll be reading a book and it'll hit me, and I'll read the same paragraph a dozen times.
I am so incredibly blessed. That realization hits me, and I can think of nothing else.
It might seem like an odd thing, to have a best friend that you've never even met. I suppose it seemed odd to me, back when I first found her. She has become such an integral part of my life, but if I saw her walking down the street I might not even know her. If I spoke to her on the phone it might take me a few seconds to recognize her voice.
It might seem like an odd thing, but it doesn't. Not to me. To me it's as natural as breathing. And just as involuntary.
Three years ago today, that's when I found her.
Just got an email from her.
Told her that I'm trying to write this entry, for our anniversary, but that I'm experiencing writer's block.
I think the problem is that nothing I could ever possibly write would be enough. Not enough to even come close to describing how important she is to me. I don't have the words, and even if I did, I don't think I have the strength to put those words together.
I know that whatever I write will fall short of the mark. Trivialize the emotions. Marginalize the gratitude that I feel when I think about her being in my life.
I needed something, three years ago. I needed it so badly that I was dying from the lack of it. And she gave it to me.
Not pity, or doubt, or advice. She didn't try to rationalize what I was going through, and she didn't try to make it all better, and she didn't judge, and she didn't mock.
And I went from feeling completely alone in this world, to having an ally. A kindred spirit I called her. And that knowledge, that wonderful knowledge that I wasn't alone, that I wasn't a freak, that I wasn't any of the things I'd been labeled as...
I began to heal, three years ago on this day. I stopped waiting to die, and began struggling to live, three years ago on this day.
Sometimes I think that we take each other for granted.
I relish those thoughts, because they're absolutely true. We take each other for granted because that's exactly what we are.
We will always be friends. We will always be there for each other.
We are granted to each other.
Happy anniversary, my dearest friend Teri.
For some reason I just dreamed that I'd bought another house. Same house that, a couple of months ago, I'd dreamed that I'd looked at with a realtor.
I didn't even like the damn house very much. It was way too white, and there was no basement. And there was a weird front patio that didn't even face anything except a rock wall. And you had to go through a tunnel to get from the driveway to the front door.
But, in this dream I just had, I bought the damn place. Possibly because I'm retarded, though that subject didn't come up in the dream. What did come up was that I was totally unmotivated to move into the new house. The thought of packing up all of my shit, renting a truck, recruiting helpers - it was all way too daunting a task.
So I decided that I wasn't going to move at all. I was going to keep living right where I was, and also have another house. One that was way too white, but that I'd never go into.
Good thing my dream self is so damn rich, I guess.
A couple of weeks ago - right now, it feels like it was a couple of thousand years ago - I guess I said something weird.
"It's weird that you remember that," she said.
Well, guess what?
I remember every single time.
Just don't ask for details, because I was in a daze, every single time.
1. On the way home last night, I stopped at a gas station for some Diet Pepsi. Sitting at a gas pump, about to leave, was BadPickleGirl.
What made this weird was that I never, ever, recognize BadPickleGirl right away. It's always that my hot girl radar goes off, and then I look over at her, and then it takes a few seconds before I realize it's BadPickleGirl.
Anyway, she gave me my two beer glasses back, so yay!
2. I was out on my swing last night emailing this chick from JS. I managed to get into a very bad mood because I wanted to be emailing you-know-who, but that didn't seem to be an option.
What made emailing the JS chick weird was that, after a couple of hours, she confessed that she'd been naked for like two hours while emailing me. I think she was trying to cheer me up, and it might have worked if my imagination worked better than it does.
And now the JS chick has a new nickname, and it's NakedGirl. I hope she likes it.
Those are supposedly monkeys. Giant inflatable albino monkeys. In blackface, for some strange reason.
I'm told they're supposed to be art, and that they're affiliated with the 21C museum/hotel across the street.
I don't know whether giant inflatable albino monkeys in blackface are art or not. What I do know is that (a) They seem kinda rascist to me, and (b) That's a busy interstate highway behind them, and (c) If I were driving down the highway and saw giant inflatable albino monkeys in blackface, I might just cause a 50-car pileup.
Maybe that's where the art would really be.
Why is it beforehand and afterwards?
Why not beforewards?
I feel like I'm missing something here.
I had this idea for an entry last night, right about when I went to bed. Usually, when I have these late-night ideas, one of two things will happen. Either I'll get up and type up some quick notes to myself, or I'll fall asleep and then not remember anything in the morning.
Well, last night I did consider getting up and typing some notes. But my computer was all the way down at the other end of the hallway, so I just stayed in bed and went to sleep.
Imagine my surprise when, this morning at the crack of 10:30, I awoke with that same idea still rattling around in my head.
Now all I've got to do is figure out if I should write the thing.
It's kind of a two-parter, I think. The first part I could probably get away with, except for the fact that the first part leads quite obviously to the second part.
It's like a movie or a book that ends in a cliffhanger. You just know there's going to be a sequel, and you hope it doesn't suck.
This particular sequel, while it probably wouldn't suck, would almost definitely be taboo. Unless I can dress it up in metaphors so as to make it unrecognizable to anyone but me.
I need to think about this some more.