Wow.

I'm fooling myself, of course. Sitting here acting like I'm in control of things for a change. Pretending so hard that I have a choice, and then actually believing it.

Anyway, my dreams these last eight days have all been the same. Oh, not exactly the same - the details vary - but the theme stays the same.

In my dreams, I'm so happy. But then, all of a sudden, something happens, and I want to die. Sometimes, in my dreams, I get to die, but usually not. Usually I just want it, but I wake up instead. I suppose that waking up from a dream is a form of death, at least for the dream version of myself.

And they're not really all that disturbing, as nightmares go. I know it probably seems that way to someone reading about how I want to die and stuff.

But they really are just dreams, after all. A consequence of the random firing of neurons which my sleeping brain tries to interpret. Usually with some current events thrown into the mix for context, and maybe some metaphors for added color and intrigue.

I'm in a mood right now, of course. Lying to myself, saying that everything's going to be okay. Which is ludicrous, seeing as how I don't even know what okay means anymore. I mean, maybe this is it, glaring at my phone, waiting for that little red light to illuminate. Maybe this is okay.

Wow, the damn thing just lit up. It's so pretty.

She's very pretty, in case you can't tell that from the picture.

So, this may be it for me. If the pictures keep coming, I might not last the day. And it might be worth it.

So many problems, waah, waah, waah. I get so fucking sick of it. Sick of every moment of happiness being spoiled by the knowledge that it will never last, because I'm not a cocksucking douchebag and that's apparently what's required.

Doubly-sick of the fact that I haven't even been able to write about those times when I've been happy, not even a little bit. And I have been happy, dammit. I've been happy a lot these last several months.

I also, of course, can't write about being sad, but I've still managed it from time to time. When it's too much to bear alone, I share it with you readers. Like right now. Spread it out or something. But still no specifics, still nothing telling.

I am a good person, after all. Not a cocksucking douchebag.

Lot of fucking good that's done me.

I wonder what would happen, if I just wrote right here, right now, about those things which have been bothering me lately. Especially this past week.

Would it be read?

Would it be understood?

Would it be believed?

Because I've been right here dealing with it, and I sure as fuck can't believe it.

I'm not going to write shit, though. It's not my place, not my job.

And I am a good person, like I said. And I will die alone and unloved despite that fact.

I need some goddamn resolve, that's what I need. So if any of you have any resolve to spare, can you help a brother out?

I'll pay you back double in a couple of months.

Go here and read that old entry, then come back.

I'll wait.

La-la-la...

Ho hum...

Okay, what took you so long?

I wrote that over two years ago, and not a fucking thing has changed. The opinions I expressed back then are still my opinions.

And they're still right.

There was no way I could risk another "normal" Saturday night. Nope, not with the week I'd had. Any other blow would have been a fatal one.

So I decided that I'd go to Covington. I'd go there and I'd drink some OTR beer and I'd be far away - physically at least - from my life with all of its perils.

But noooooooooooooo!

Some crap happened at work, and I was informed that I'd need to stay close to home, in case things got worse.

So, at around 3:00, I had a brilliant idea. I texted HatGirl to see if she wanted to hang out.

She said yes!

HatGirl!

Yay!

We had a lot of fun just talking and hanging out. We went down to our local casino, ate too much food at their buffet, then drank too much beer at this Legends bar. Or I guess she drank too much beer - I was perfectly fine.

And now this makes two nights in a row, two different girls I've hung out with, and both have gotten sick. I guess I just have that effect on women. This is something I've long-suspected.

Anyway, I adore HatGirl, and she was exactly what I needed last night. After the horrible week I'd just been through, and which promised to spill over into the upcoming week, she was the perfect reminder of why it's sometimes worth the effort to keep breathing.

Okay, so in my last entry I said that I didn't know what I wanted anymore.

Now, I know.

I want to wake up and find that it's 2003, sometime before the Fall of that year.

I keep pinching myself, but I can't fucking wake myself up.

This has to be a nightmare.

It can't be real.

I wonder, what's supposed to happen next?

The future, it was always so clear to me before. I didn't know when and I didn't know how, but I knew what and I fucking absolutely knew why.

For years, I've been focused on one ideal, to the exclusion of everyone and everything else. Skimming above the surface of life, never quite letting myself pause and just enjoy things. Not with that wonderful future somewhere up ahead. For me, there was nothing but patience and desire, bound together.

Now, suddenly, it's different. I find myself back in that gray place I left so long ago. It hasn't changed, and I find, to my surprise, that I haven't changed that much either. I still, after months of happiness peppered with sorrow, I still average-out the same. I still belong here, alone with my own thoughts and feelings. It feels like home to me, and now I'm back, because my vacation is over.

I don't even know what I want anymore. The universe has once again shifted around me while I've stood transfixed. That which was beautiful has twisted into something ugly. That which was wonderful has transformed into something horrible. That which was desired has turned into something...

Now that's the weird thing.

It's still desired.

I don't know what's going to happen. I don't know what to do. Or say. Or feel.

Simply waiting to die seems like a bad idea, as well as a boring one. I wish I could think of a better idea, but I'm fresh-out.

I told her that it would destroy me.

I'm in shock. That I was so wrong. That everyone else was so right. That it was all a waste of time. That life can be so pointless.

You people shouldn't expect too much more from me here. Not for a while, at least.

I've got to try to digest this. Eat it before it eats me.

If I write anything now, then I'll be cruel, and I don't want to do that.

Just trying something here. This took way too much effort for the result I got.

Staring glaring,
Thoughts tearing,
Emotions flaring,
Soul baring.

So Friday I took a vacation day.

I worked for about 13 hours on my vacation day.

I'm doing it wrong.

Now I need a vacation to unwind from my vacation.

I was struck by a small series of thoughts today, as I sat hunched over my liquid lunch (Schlenkerla Fastenbier - 553) contemplating this ridiculous series of rejections that I use instead of a life, and because sometimes I just feel like writing something, I thought I'd write about my series of thoughts.

I guess most of us were young and obnoxious once, except those of you who are still young and obnoxious - get off my lawn, by the way - and even though most of us have outgrown that phase, we still remember what it was like.

Remember how, on warm days, how good it felt to roll down the car windows and crank up the volume on the radio? Or the tape player or CD player or whatever; you know what I mean.

It was impossible to not feel really cool, cruising down the street with your music blaring all around you. People would turn their heads as you drove by, and you'd imagine them thinking, "Now there goes a cool person. He's bringing music to the world. Livening up my boring life. Thank you, cool person."

But the problem is, never once in the history of the world has anyone ever thought those things. The people who drive around with their music blaring so loudly that everyone within a five-block radius can not only hear it, they can feel in their bones and in their teeth as the bass notes vibrate their fillings loose - those people are assholes. I'm also pretty sure that they blow dead goats when they get home.

I never said this would be an interesting entry.

If I could write something, something that would express my current mood as accurately and completely as possible, if I could write something relevant right now, I bet it would be good.

I bet people would like it, the way the phrases flowed and the sentences sang and the words wound and wound around the central core of inescapable truth that, for now, I'm happy.

I bet people would like it, but I can't write it. Too much of anything, even the truth, is still too much.

Anyway, fuck you, universe!

I may be down, but I'm not out.

I don't know how many steps there are - I think about sixteen - because I've never taken time to count them. Hell, I've never had the spare brain capacity to count them because I'm too busy being happy or sad during those times when I use those particular stairs.

The coincidental part is that my mood parallels my altitude.

I always run up, sometimes two steps at a time, my ever-widening smile betraying the calmness that I strive to project just because I feel like it's expected and not weird, and I always trudge down, my frown broadcasting my defeat to the world.

In case you didn't guess already, I'm really bored right now. So I'm babbling, albeit in written form.

Last evening, for an hour or so to anyone unfortunate enough to notice me but a million years from my own perspective, I glared at my phone and I waited to die. It may have seemed that I did other things during that time - I appeared to chain-smoke and breathe and blink my eyes and all sorts of other mundane things - but those were mere illusions. Reflexive and involuntary actions, and nothing more. Nothing mattered to me except my phone, and the fact that it was silent.

My phone was going to ring, see. Actually, it was going to woo-hoo if you really need to know that small detail. My phone was going to woo-hoo, and then I was going to answer it. And then I was going to listen for a few seconds. And then I was going to say four words, assuming that I'd be able to speak at all, and then I was going to die.

I found myself wondering what my next reincarnation would be, what the next version of Dave would be like. The last one, the current version of myself, had gone on a fairly decent run. Decent, but not good, and certainly not great. The old saying is that nice guys finish last, and while I may not have been bringing up the absolute rear, sometimes second place is just as bad. Sometimes second place is the worst thing that could ever happen. Like when you've dedicated your entire life to a single race.

It was a false alarm. My phone made its woo-hoo sound, and I saw that it was a text message, and I sighed with relief. My death would not, I knew, be delivered via such an impersonal conduit, it would have come via voice. I've earned that much, I'm sure.

So, I'm still here. For now.

Despite all initial indications - despite, at times, hundreds thousands of latter indications - some people are just not nice, at least not when it really matters.

It doesn't make a difference, though, even though every spare instance of logical thought screams at you that it should make a huge difference, it simply doesn't. Not in the long run, anyway. You know what you know, and you feel what you feel, and the sad truth is that the two are not always complimentary.

You find yourself forced to choose between the truth and the fantasy, but it's not such a daunting task, because there is no choice. The heart wins, every time without fail or even much hesitation, the heart wins.

In summary, I'm fucked.

Fingers fumbling finding feeling fondling finally forcefully fusing firmly.

Looking over the fence. Admiring the green grass. Barely noticing my neighbor, my mirror-image, coveting my lawn.

Some forces attract and others repel. Sometimes there's a balance, and this bullshit I use instead of a life makes a little bit of sense.

Tasting the sour grapes. Wondering if I can ever love them. Realizing that I already do.

I have this word that keeps emanating from my lips.

It's not a nice word, and it's certainly not an earned word.

I wish the word would stop being the sound that my lips make when they decide to make an ostensibly random sound.

I wish the word would go back to hiding inside my head, with its brethren, until the day when it's really needed.

Not that I expect that to happen.

I heard about this open-mic thingy the other night. I didn't go, but I heard about it. One of the things I heard was that there were some "real" writers there.

I like to imagine myself as a real writer. Not now, I mean, but someday, in the future, maybe. I think I have it in me; that combination of passion and creativity that's so necessary. I've certainly got the passion, and the creativity is in here somewhere, rattling around in my head like a quarter you've left in your jeans when you did a load of laundry. Now it's in the dryer, banging and clanging.

Trying to take the chaos inside me and distill it into something that's both meaningful and interesting. It's tough sometimes, impossible at other times, but it feels downright effortless on nights like tonight. Nights when I've fucked up and it feel like this keyboard is absolutely all I have left. Every part of me, every iota of anything and everything that makes me who I am and how I am - all escaping by the only path available, flowing down through my fingers and onto my keyboard.

It has to escape. It fucking has to, because it's unbearable to be inside my head on nights like tonight.

Nights when I've fucked up.

Nights when I'm sorry.

Anyway, I know that this entry sucks. Just because something seems easy doesn't mean that it's any good.

One time, two times, three times, four times.

I wonder if there will be any more times.

Because that would be cool.

An annoying pattern is emerging.

I need to do something about it, since it's my fault.

---

Hey, you.

Just think. That's really all I ask.

And, if you keep coming up with the wrong answer, think some more.

I'll let you know when you're finally right, if everyone else in your life doesn't beat me to it.

---

It's March now. Cold weather, please go away. Okay thanks.

---

I didn't bring it up, but now that it's been brought up, several times, I'm having a tough time not thinking about it. This is one of the few things about this mess that is not my fault.

So there.

---

I think that's it for now. Funny, I thought there would be more.

I'm in here somewhere. I just know I am. I can almost, when it's late at night and I'm all alone, I can almost sense my presence. A flicker crosses my mind, but I notice it an instant too late.

I am, as I've said so often lately, fucked.

Dammit, I know I'm in here somewhere.

I defy anyone to live with this much pain for this long. I have no idea how I'm coping at all, if this can even be called coping.

I know what needs to be done, but I cannot do it. Time and time again, I turn around and I take one or two or three purposeful strides, and then my legs betray me. They turn to rubber, and I cannot take another step.

Efforts to push me away have seemed to be tests more than anything else. Tests for which I'm ill-prepared, and for which the results are beyond my control. Am I passing? Am I failing?

Lately there have been attempts to pull me away from this mess. To save me. Offers of something different, perhaps even better. I resist these attempts, though I no longer know why. I mean, why fear the unknown when the known is so terrifying?

I am most definitely fucked.