I've had this thought sliding around in my head for a few days. It's a slippery bastard, though, and I never can seem to maintain a grip on it. Long enough to recognize it, but not long enough to really get a good look. I suspect that, eventually, this thought will be captured and dissected into a blog entry. But not today.

---

I'm at Denny's again this morning. I got here late, for me. It's 7:15 as I write this sentence. I guess I timed things just right, as I pretty much have the place to myself. I see an elderly couple out front. I bet they're going to church when they leave here. I hope they find what they're looking for.

---

KittenDamsel and I were supposed to go to Covington last night. But then I was reminded that there was a party at my sister's house, for my niece and her fiancé. So I went there instead. KittenDamsel didn't want to go because, she said, she wouldn't know anyone. Well, out of the 7.5 million people there, I only knew perhaps a dozen. Maybe I'll go to Covington today. Maybe she'll take Monday off and come with me. Maybe pigs will fly. We'll see.

---

I wonder what time Home Depot opens. I could buy some 4x4s and some Quickrete and work on my swing. I can't believe I've let it go this long, but I guess I've been distracted. I've never done anything with concrete before. I'm afraid I'll make a mistake and get trapped somehow. A permanent monument to my own ineptitude.

---

I guess there's just no way that I can go anywhere without running away from here. I'm coming to grips with that. I can run, perhaps because I must run. The thought of running away is not what's giving me pause. Nope, it's the stark realization that, by running somewhere else, I'd also be giving up on here. That's what scares me. I'm just not ready to give up, and I fear that I never will be ready.

I've written before that I think fate is a silly concept, but I just can't shake this feeling, this certainty, that there's a reason for all this. A reason that I'm sitting at a Denny's early on a Sunday morning and thinking about her, missing her. This series of events and emotions that was set into motion all those years ago, there is a reason. I just don't know what that reason is. Perhaps its purpose is to destroy me.

So far, so good.

---

The crowd is starting to pour in now. More church people, I bet. I guess it's nice to have faith in something. I can't say that their faith is any more misplaced than my own.

I'm at Denny's again. Couldn't sleep again.

DoableGirl is back. I bet she was hoping I'd be here.

This insomnia is getting very annoying. The hours and days and weeks blur together, just like all of my thoughts. I don't see how, but I'm somehow managing to survive on two or three hours of sleep every day. And sometimes less than that. I wish I could say that I'm getting a lot done, that I'm taking full advantage of all the extra time I have, but I'm not. Unless you count shooting pool. I'm doing a lot of that. But of course I suck because I'm so damn tired.

I wonder what DoableGirl's problems are. I'm sure she's got some. She's not perfect like I am, totally unencumbered by any baggage whatsoever.

It's too early to be writing this. I should wait. I should go back out into my garage and have another Marzen and then write this drivel.

But I'm inside now. And my garage is all the way out there.

Screw it. I'm going back outside. Nobody wanted to read unpolished bullshit anyway.

I have this thing that I used to do, years ago. I used to write something every night, before I went to bed. MixedSignalGirl was my muse, back then, though my own thoughts and feelings certainly put their two cents' worth in whenever the pressure became too great.

Now, I'm certainly not saying that I'm going to go back to writing something every day. I've said that before, and I've always failed to live up to that promise. But what I am saying is that I'll do better than I've done in the recent past.

---

Tonight I was thinking, as I'm so wont to do. Thinking was, as it has always been, a bad thing for me to do.

I was thinking about invitations. Invitations that I've received and invitations I've merely wanted to receive. And I was thinking about what my responses would be. And I was surprised and irritated at some of the realizations I made.

I would still, for example and after everything, rather simply hang out with the girl I love than fuck anyone else.

I've known this, on a subconscious level, for months. But tonight, it really seemed like a choice I might have to make. And, tonight, I once again realized that there would be no real choice.

---

I tried to be nice. I actually think that I was nice. But it was for naught. I was accused of being mean, basically. Of being an asshole. That same old assumption still ruled, and fuck the truth and the horse it rode in on.

Well, news flash; I'm not an asshole. And neither is the horse. It's a really nice horse, actually.

---

So then I made a phone call. I asked KittenDamsel straight-out. Her answer surprised me very much. If I go, then she'll go. She'll go and then we'll see what transpires.

There's this thing called faith, see. Not the religious kind, but faith in a person's goodness. I have it. KittenDamsel has it. HatGirl certainly has it. And certain others don't have it. Oh well.

That old saying, better safe than sorry, is all well and good except when it becomes the primary driving force for a life.

Safe, far too often, leads to sorry.

Failure to take any kind of real chance is, quite simply, a failure to live.

I'm at Denny's again. It's 5:15 Thursday morning as I write this sentence. I'm once again wide awake. I still feel like writing - I even blew the cobwebs off my notebook and brought it along - but I still don't have a topic.

I suppose I'll just wing it.

It's much more crowded here now than it was yesterday morning. Not that crowded is at all a fair or accurate word to describe things here now.

Yesterday some hippie dude and I had the entire place to ourselves. Now, there are five of us in the smoking section, and another half-dozen or so in the main eating area. The same hippie dude is here again. Or maybe he's stillhere. I never saw him leave, and he's sitting in the same place he sat yesterday. He's got his laptop and his paperwork scattered all over his table. He's here for the long haul, I suspect.

Moving my gaze around the room clockwise, I next see two old guys, sitting at different tables but each possessed of the same blank stare.

And, directly in front of me at the next table, there's a girl. There's always a girl in my stories, it seems. This particular girl smiled at me when I came in, and I smiled back. Now she's reading on her laptop and I'm looking at the back of her head and trying to remember how pretty she is. Tall, thin, with short brown hair pulled into a ponytail of sorts. Definitely doable, I think, though of course I'll be doing no such thing.

---

Food was good as always. I didn't eat it all, though. Perhaps my appetite has gone the way of my sleepiness. Oh well.

While I ate what I ate and picked at what I didn't eat, one of the vacant-eyed old guys left and the other one got himself a female companion. His wife or girlfriend, I suspect. Good for him.

Also, two youngish guys arrived, and now they sit in the corner booth talking to each other quietly but not quietly enough to keep from disturbing the ambience of this place at this hour.

The hippie dude is still typing away, and the pretty girl is still reading away.

Me?

I'm scribbling away in my notebook, of course. What a silly question.

---

It's 6:00 now, and the sky is starting to lighten. Though I can't hear them, I'm sure that birds are out there tweeting and whistling. And, I imagine, alarm clocks are going off all over the place as normal people begin their days.

I'll be going home soon, though I don't know why. I guess to type this entry into my computer. Not to sleep, that's for sure. I'm having lunch with HatGirl in six hours, and I can't risk missing that. I've flaked on her far too often lately.

I don't know why I go home at all anymore except to take care of my cats.

I've found that, for the last several weeks, that damn place nearly suffocates me with its emptiness. So I leave, all the time. I go to wherever there are people. Not to engage in any conversations, but instead to leverage the pressure of societal expectations as a crutch, to keep myself from falling over, or as a tight wrap, to keep myself from falling apart.

These people who I don't know and don't really care to know, they're some of my best friends lately. I should put them on my Christmas card list, thought of course I have no such list.

---

Well, DoableGirl has packed up her stuff and gone off to wherever girls like her go at times like this.

I suppose that's as good a cue for me to leave as I'm going to get.

I decided sometime this afternoon that I needed to write something relevant. Something to, perhaps, entice the last stragglers into sticking around this blog a little longer. One such entry follows. Don't read it if you don't like relevant things. This means you, by the way.

It should have been me.

I've said and wrote and felt those words so many times over the last several months, and it's pretty much the one thought that's remained consistent throughout all of this bullshit that I've used instead of a life.

It should have been me. Never before and, I hope with all of my heart, never again, will I ever be so certain about something. Certainty is fine and good, by the way, until it blows up in your face and splatters god-knows-what (certainty guts?) all over you.

I want to know where I messed up. I want to know what I did wrong. I want - no, scratch that - I need to know what was wrong with me.

There. That's relevant.

But wait!

There's more.

I see four options, if I squint my eyes just so and tilt my head at just the right angle. Four.

There should be one. That's all I've ever had, after all, since that unknown evening in the Fall of 2003.

Anyway, nothing, less, same, more.

Those are the options.

We've tried nothing. I've lived with nothing for almost two months now. It's damn near killed me. It may still kill me, if I'm lucky. Better that than to die alone and unloved in my fucking sleep in forty fucking years. A broken heart is a pretty noble way to die, I think.

More, well that is the only option that my heart has ever let me consider. Unfortunately, it's not up to me, or the choice would have been made a long time ago.

Same simply cannot happen. It was an untenable situation, and we witnessed the proof, as everything that we had toppled and shattered and scattered at our feet because of our stupid feelings and our stupid prides and our stupid fears, despite our stupid blindness and our stupid lack of acceptance and our stupid stubbornness

So now we're stuck with less. Exactly how much less isn't up to me, and I'm glad that it's not. Because I'm not up to the task of deciding. I'm still, after all these minutes and hours and days and weeks and months since everything fell apart, I'm still not capable of separating the fantasy of what I feel from the reality of what I see.

And I really don't think that I'll ever be capable. Nor do I want the job.

Cool. A relevant entry with not just one, but two relevant subjects. That ought to keep people around for a while longer.

Now I have a decision to make.

I bought cold Barley Island Barfly, introduced to me by LaptopGirl and very good even though it is an IPA. I also bought warm Left Hand Smoke Jumper, a yummy smoked porter that is actually what I went into the store to buy in the first place.

So, I could drink some Barfly right now, even though it's not really what I wanted, and even though it might make me think sad thoughts. At least it's cold and ready to drink.

Or, I could wait another hour or so for the Smoke Jumper to get cold enough.

This is a tough decision. I think I need a drink while I try to decide.

How do I leave without running away, scurrying to the relative safety of the unknown? It could be the greatest opportunity ever, but could I take advantage of it for its own sake? I want to stay, but how can I stand my ground when that ground has dissolved beneath my feet? How can I leave with any dignity at all?

How do I stay without clinging, with desperation and inevitable futility, to false hope? Do family and friends mean anything at all? Does my house mean anything at all? I want to leave, but how could I possibly leave my own life? How can I stay for myself, and for nobody else?

How do I change my life, and my habits, and my haunts, without hiding and cowering?

How do I show strength without being cold, without invalidating everything that I've said, and done, and felt?

How do I show emotion without being spineless and selfish, without shaking every time I hear a voice or, God forbid, see a face?

Everything I do is seen through these damn colored glasses. The ones that I've worn willingly for a large chunk of my life. It's no wonder that people are watching me, listening to me, reading my words.

She's reading my words.

How do I move on without rebounding?

I'm stuffed now. The food was fantastic. I should go to Denny's more often.

I told RingGirl that I'm in the middle of a very tough breakup. Funny how words can be both a bald-faced lie and the utter truth at the same time.

Oh, yeah - the ring is a prop, to scare away undesirables.

Trying not to think about the past, or at least not the recent past. It's just too damn depressing.

Also not thinking about the future, because for all I know there isn't going to be one. It's all amorphous and shit.

And the present?

Fuck the present.

So where does that leave me?

Nowhere. Or Nowhen. Whatever. Random firings of neurons in my brain that sometimes luck-out and form coherent thoughts.

Ahem...

It really bothers me that I censored myself so much these last several months. I mean, I didn't even write about New Year's Eve, for fuck's sake. That was a wonderful night. I still can't write about it, though. Except that it was wonderful.

And...

So many other times that I felt such incredible joy, and I still kept quiet. I hope that my silence was appreciated, because I didn't stay silent for myself. I wanted to not only write about my joy, I wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

And...

Clearly, I waited too long to say those words. But really, was there a better time? An opportunity that I'd missed, a hint that I'd failed to see? Perhaps, but hindsight is 20/20, and foresight is maybe about 20/200 at best.

And...

I thought things were progressing naturally. Not in a weird way at all. I was wrong about that, and eventually I felt desperate and forced to say those words that I'd kept hidden for years. And I was too late. Or maybe still too soon. I haven't figured that out yet.

And...

Completely changing the subject, but what happened is that we ended up scaring the shit out of each other. The first time was back in 2005 when we first met. The second time was much more recent. We still scare the shit out of each other on a regular basis. But it's a good kind of scary, I think.

Oh, and also...

Changing the subject again. I don't know what's going on. I like to think that I know myself well enough to recognize those old danger signs, but it's very possible that I'm just lying to myself all over again. If so, then at least I think she's lying to herself as well, and that's why we make such a good team.

I managed to get eight hours of sleep. I don't think that I care that they were all during the daytime.

I'd probably have slept longer except my cat Buddy jumped onto the bed and began loudly singing his sad song about starving to death. I got up and dumped some cat food into the bowl - I don't know why they can't do that themselves - and so now I'm awake and up. And the cats are sated and asleep.

I'm thinking fairly clearly right now. It's almost like the human brain needs sleep to help it function properly. Someone should study this - I may be onto something.

Anyway, about that other thing. I'm disappointed, of course. But I got exactly the reaction that I was expecting, so at least shock is off the menu for today. And that's enough about that, I think.

I was going to write a blog entry tonight, I really was. But the damn thing morphed into an email. A personal email.

So I wrote and I wrote and I wrote the email, and then I sent it off. To be read, I suppose. To be believed, I hope. To be understood, well I can't say I'm very confident about that.

But still, two out of three isn't bad.

It is a long and winding path, this one that I stand before. That we stand before.

Every now and then, bolstered by alcohol and desperation, I test my footing, just in front of where I stand. But it's just a test. I place my foot forward, and I brush the ground with my toes, and I almost shift my weight forward, but not quite.

Never quite.

I am afraid, you see. Afraid of tiring, and afraid of making a wrong turn, and afraid of losing my concentration and my footing. Slipping and falling. But mostly, afraid of finding myself on this path alone.

See, this is not a journey that I can make by myself.

I try. Every now and then, I really do try to fix things between us. Or to at least define things between us.

I try, and I fail, every time.

I will keep trying.

I will.

My Monday night started out pleasantly enough. KittenDamsel bought me dinner (Wendy's) in exchange for me hooking her DVD player up correctly. I'd told her last weekend that she could get a much better picture and 5-channel sound just by using the proper cables and connections, but she played the girl-card, and so I offered to fix things for her.

Besides eating dinner and crawling around behind her entertainment center, I spent a lot of time poking my finger into her spiffy new sunburn and watching it change colors. Mesmerizing.

Then I went to Rich O's. While there, I alternated between glaring at my phone and glaring at the door. Neither activity proved fruitful. After PearlGirl and her boyfriend left, there really wasn't anyone there I felt like talking to, so I picked up my shit and moved to the bar to finish my Marzen (11138). By 9:30 I was really bored, and my eyes were kind of tired from all the glaring, so I left. But then I remembered that there was no place to go, so I went back to Rich O's.

I was having a nice glass of Franziskaner (39) when OddlyFamiliarGirl came in. So that was nice. We talked and whatever. I switched to Diet Coke. I left again at midnight when Rich O's closed.

That's when it got annoying.

I got pulled over. Or, actually, I went to the haunted Burger King and the cop followed me with his lights flashing, so maybe that doesn't really count as getting pulled over. I'm sure he would have pulled me over if I hadn't been stopping anyway.

The guy came up to my truck and asked for the usual paperwork. I gave him my license and, while I was fishing for my current registration, he told me that I hadn't used my turn signal when turning onto Grant Line Road. I felt like calling bullshit on that. I always use my turn signal, even when I'm leaving my own driveway, but I figured it would be his word against mine. Plus, he was the one with the gun.

He asked me, of course, where I was coming from. I said Rich O's. So he asked me, of course, how much I'd had to drink. I said a Marzen (11138) and a Franziskaner (39). Upon seeing the quizzical look on his face, I clarified that I'd had two beers.

I realize that "two beers" is probably the standard answer given by people under suspicion, so I wasn't surprised at all when he had me take off my glasses and follow his pen around with my eyes. I guess that test didn't yield the result that he wanted, because then he went back to his car for five years, and came back and had me blow into a thingy. As I was not immediately arrested, I knew I'd passed that test as well.

I will admit, however, that for a few moments there I was concerned that I might have grossly miscalculated.

And the guy was just doing his job, helping to keep us all safe. I have a lot of respect for (most) cops.

He ended up giving me a ticket for not using my turn signal, and then he sent me on my way.

I'd originally stopped at the haunted Burger King to get something to eat. But the crap with the cop had lasted just long enough, and they were closed by the time the cop left. So I came home instead.

As the subset of the universe that makes up my readership prepares to roll its collective eyes...

Not this shit again?!?

Yes, indeed. This shit again.

Something else. That's what we've become. Something undefined, and perhaps undefinable. Not friends, not acquaintances, certainly not lovers. Neither strangers nor enemies. Ghosts who haunt each other from time to time.

We give life to lies by pretending they're true, but we fool nobody but ourselves, and only then through luck and stubbornness.

Everything that was and everything that could have been, replaced by this, this something. Blindness. Deafness. Numbness.

We have become something else. A round peg searching desperately for purpose, but finding itself in a universe full of square holes. Definition eludes, cowers.

In flux, perhaps.

Three hours ago, I was going to write something and then I was going to go to bed. I was going to go to bed at a normal hour, like a normal person.

See, I've got a lunch date with HatGirl and I want to be refreshed and shit. So I was going to go to bed at 12:30 or so, right after I wrote something.

And here I still sit.

Better late than never, perhaps?

There is a quote by Ernest Hemingway on NakedGirl's blog.

There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

Anyway, I was thinking today that I need to stop this bleeding.

Or not.

Maybe, instead, I should slice the veins in my soul and just let myself pour.

How long would I bleed? Forever?

That would be gross.

Okay, so now I'm home again. It's 3:14 in the morning as I type this sentence, for those of you keeping score.

I just, like right this minute, got an urge to type something. Once again, unfortunately, I haven't the slightest idea what I can/should/will write.

So I'll just let my fingers twitch against this keyboard, and then I'll see what's produced.

I think I've figured out what it is that I want. Something impossible, of course, but that's never stopped me before. And the nice thing about impossible dreams is that I'm not disappointed when they don't come true.

The thing is, like it or not, I'm still pretty much the same person that I was two months ago, six months ago, five years ago. Recent events have shattered my hopes and derailed my desires, but they've done absolutely nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing to me.

Only the direction has changed. This compass that once pointed true now spins wildly, seeking a North that no longer exists.

Or does it?

This is an important question.

I've got so little patience these days. I run around and I grab heads and I peer into eyes, and if I don't see what I want within the first few seconds, I release my grip and I move on.

I know what I'm looking for, and I know where to find it. I just can't look there, not anymore. So I look for it elsewhere.

It exists. I know it does. It's out there somewhere, somewhere else I mean. I will find it. Or maybe I'll die trying, but if so, then I'll die fucking trying instead of sulking.

Hmmm, I just read the drivel that I've written so far. It sucks. I know exactly what I'm trying to say here, but my fingers aren't cooperating.

Maybe my fingers are tired. I know that the rest of me is.

5:35. AM. In the flipping morning.

Sleep tries to elude me, but I always manage to catch it. Eventually. I do sleep. In fact, I get more sleep now than I did before all of the shit hit the fan in my personal life. Figure that one out, and then explain it to me because I don't get it.

Things are way too calm inside my head. It really doesn't feel right. I should be devastated, and I always feel like I'm right on the verge of devastation, but I never seem to cross that line.

I keep saying that I don't know who I am anymore. That's an absolute fact. I mean, for years I was that guy. You know, the one who had hope for something wonderful with someone wonderful. The one who gave up his life to spend as much time as possible with someone wonderful. I may have mentioned some of this from time to time.

Anyway, I'm no longer that guy, and I'm almost always alone, even in a crowded room, and so I'm not sure just who the fuck I am.

So, after you figure out why I'm managing to sleep, maybe you can figure out who I am, and let me know that as well.

Sometimes I find myself in a weird mood. But not a regular weird mood, where I feel like writing something deep and moving and relevant, instead a mood where I feel like plagarizing myself.

So much of what I've written over the years has been the absolute truth. So true, in fact, that it remains true to this day:

The thought that a pretty face, or a sexy body, or a friendly personality - the thought that any or all of these things might be enough for me - that thought borders on hilarious.

There's always something missing, it seems. That thing which is intangible and all-important. That's the thing for which the need permeates me. I've found something to fill that need once, twice, maybe three times. I may never find it again. That would be sad, I think.

Desire is more important than satisfaction. Because you can never really have the latter without the former. If you try, it inevitably feels hollow and empty. It feels like a lie, and for good reason.

WeirdGirl and I talked about this stuff for a while, our breathing still synchronized, in the late hours before sleep took us. We've discussed it before, and it's starting to sink in, the things that I say. She's finally starting to understand me, and her understanding will probably signal the end of this. Whatever this is.

I could have lied to her. Either explicitly or implicitly, I could have been much less than honest and therefore been a much better boyfriend. But that's not who I am, how I am. I will not change. The truth is all that I have sometimes. All that I have left.

I want to write something now.

I want to write that I'm done with trying to be nice, with trying to salvage any semblance of civility from this mess. I want to write that I get it, that I'm going to stop denying the harsh truth and that I'm going to accept it even if I can't embrace it. I want to write that I realize that it will take more than my own feeble efforts to resurrect any hope for anything at all, and that my efforts, unaccompanied as they are, cause more harm than good. I want to write that I see no way that this can be fixed.

I want to write all of those things, but I won't. I won't write them because they wouldn't be true.

Not yet, anyway.

So I've been thinking a lot lately. That's not really anything new. I do it all the time. Lately, however, it's been so damn futile that I don't know why I'm even bothering to think at all.

Problem is, I don't know what I want. And it's not that I keep changing my mind. I don't even seem to have a mind to change.

My resolve is strong, but what exactly is my resolution?

I don't know what I want because I don't know who I am, and so I don't know what to do. I'm living on reflex, and I don't like it.

Very frustrating. For years I knew exactly who I was, and what I wanted, and so I could act accordingly.

Now, I look in the mirror and I see a stranger with some hidden desire, and I wish he'd let me in on the damn secret.

I'm starving. I face this decision every day. I could go to Bearno's where I can get a Newcastle but I don't like the food as much, or I can go to Sam's where I like the food but I have to settle for Blue Moon or Amber Bock.

Decisions, decisions...

I think I'll do Sam's today.

Or maybe Bearno's.

I know that everyone cares where I go for lunch.

It really is too bad that she's not photogenic at all, isn't it?

So this was pretty much the highlight of my night. After HatGirl left I glared at my phone for a while, then went over to Jack's. I was starving, but the kitchen had just closed.

I spent a couple of hours talking to this one dude about various topics, one of which being - All white guys look younger than they really are. So that was good to know, I guess.

They showed a commercial for Skyline chili at one point, and after that I couldn't shut up about how much I was craving some Skyline. So, when I left Jack's, I went to Kroger and bought the stuff I'd need to make my own.

And that's what I did, as soon as I got home.

Oh yeah, I also had a new beer when I was at Rich O's.

Ayinger Leichte Brau-Weisse

(draft) Hazy yellow, with a decent head that lasted long enough. A nice aroma and flavor, both fairly standard for a German wheat beer. Good, a little dry. Tasted stronger than it was.

I don't know what it is about this early hour on this early May morning that suddenly finds my brain aching to write something. Neither do I know what it is I'm supposed to write. I think it just has to be something but the actual topic is irrelevant.

Irrelevant.

That's a word that I've used a lot over the past several weeks and months and even years.

So something has happened. Something bad. A beast bore down upon me, and I saw it coming and I stood my ground and I fought with everything I had.

I lost.

People tell me that I should have never bothered to fight. That I should have ran at the first sign of trouble. That it was futile from the start. This is their way of telling me that they think I've been stupid for a long time.

It's easy for people to cower safely inside their own lives and pretend to understand. It's easy to smirk and shake your head when you've never had anything worth fighting for. Worth living for. Worth dying for.

People tell me that this is a good thing. That now I can finally move on.

Those people are irrelevant. Their opinions are irrelevant. Their advice is irrelevant.

Maybe I could never see the forest through the trees, but at least I was in the damn forest. And now, battered and bloody, I struggle to crawl my way out.

So a few weeks ago - I could tell you the exact date, but I'd have to look it up - this chick was hitting on me. I was almost positive.

Well, tonight I became positive, because she fucking did it again. With zero subtlety.

She was unsuccessful.

But it was still nice to know that I wasn't imagining things before.

---

Sometimes there are too many women.

Like tonight, before the drama at Rich O's, I sat at Buckhead having dinner with HatGirl...

HatGirl!

Yay!

...and her equally hot friend PokerGirl, and then BadPickleGirl started texting me about going to some bar I never heard of before.

I had to decline, of course, but I promised to maybe see BadPickleGirl on Saturday.

I'm such a tease sometimes.

---

And then, after the drama at Rich O's with MaybeCrazyGirl hitting on me, YoungGirl called me to ask me to come over.

I declined that offer as well.

I know why I declined, but I don't want to say.

It had nothing to do with her, though.

---

Today I slept almost all damn day. So now I feel like I may never be tired again.

---

It was really packed at Rich O's tonight. I don't know why.

---

I also got to see ImprobablyHotMarriedGirl when I first went in. That was cool. I gave her a big hug and felt a big bump - she's pregnant. So congratulations to her!

---

I might be back typing some more stuff. Or maybe not.

Funny, I really thought I'd be in the mood to write something tonight. And I suppose that I was, about six hours ago. But now I'm home and I don't feel like writing anymore.

Sometimes, things happen. That's what I was thinking I'd write about. Sometimes, things happen, and I feel pretty guilty, especially about the things that the things imply.

No, scratch that. There's no implication, there's a big fucking spotlight shining onto my shortcomings.

But, as I told myself Wednesday night, when some things happened, "You get one life, Dave. Try to enjoy it every now and then."

That's the same line of reasoning that I've used to justify a lot things lately.

Hmmm, I guess I did feel like writing something after all. No much, to be certain, but something.