Not much that I can say about Friday. I got to see several of my favorite people, including my two most favorite people in the world. There was no drama, and I managed to keep my sadness in-check pretty well.

It fucking rained the entire night, so that sucked. But other than that it was a good night. Especially since that one crazy girl left as soon as she saw me.

I'll probably try to go to sleep again in a few minutes. I don't expect much success, though. I find myself back in the same pattern I was in several months ago. Two hours, maybe three if I'm lucky, and then I'm wide awake again. I think I've averaged about two hours per night for the last week. Maybe four hours per night for the past two weeks. I slept really well on a couch a couple of weeks ago. I think that was the last time I slept well.

The main difference, this time around, is that I don't know what keeps waking me up. If there are bad dreams, they're evaporating as soon as they've done their damage. Maybe I don't need to have those bad dreams anymore. Nothing has changed, after all, from when I hit rock-bottom back in May. Maybe those dreams are implied, and so they don't need to actually appear.

And I feel okay, I suppose. I'm not constantly exhausted like I should be. Maybe I'm getting used to this, finally.

All of the days and nights are blurring together. They have no meaning to me anymore, for the most part. Oh, sometimes they matter. Last night mattered for a while, until it reverted to just another night. I'm disappointed about that, even though I knew it was a real long-shot. Stupid hope may be stupid, but it's better than nothing, and it still stings when it's dashed. Still reminds me that I'm alive.

And I think Wednesday night was pretty fun, or maybe it was Tuesday. I wish I knew for sure about that one. For a few seconds there, I was smarter than OddlyFamiliarGirl, and that almost never happens.

In nine days I get to leave and maybe enjoy myself for a while. At least that's the plan. I've been afraid that I'll get this damn swine flu and have to cancel my trip. Or, even worse, I could get sick while I'm in Las Vegas. That would really suck.

I suppose, for the sake of completeness, I should say that there's a chance that I'm not coming back. It's not a big chance, but it's greater than zero.

Hmmm, I feel really tired right now. It's probably a false alarm, but I've got to try to sleep.

It's such a nice night outside. It's warm, I mean. So even though the predicted thunderstorms look like they're a no-go, it's still nice.

I'm going to go out to my garage, and sit on my el-cheapo white plastic furniture, and drink at least one yummy Marzen, and I'm going to try to get out of this damn writey mood that I'm in.

How do I do that?

Well, I allow myself to be overwhelmed. So that thoughts refuse to line up like baby ducks. So that my mind is awash and aswarm with thousands of conflicting thoughts and emotions. So that I couldn't pick a single tree out of that forest if my life depended on it.

I make no promises, though. I might be able to keep my big fat mouth shut, or I might not.

There are things that I need to say, dammit. There are things that need to be said, dammit. There are thoughts that need to be expressed, dammit.

There are dragons that need to be slain, dammit, or at least acknowledged.

If I was Catholic, I think it would be funny to do that cross-myself thing whenever I was about to do something scary or stressful. I see baseball players do it all the time when they step up to the plate.

Or if I had asthma, I could use my inhaler thingy at those same times. I guess I could get one of those inhaler thingies even though I don't have asthma. For comedic effect.

Or maybe if I was a voodoo priest, I could sacrifice a chicken. But it would be a big hassle to always have to carry around live chickens.

Anyway, I'm not pushing my luck tonight. I'm going to Bearno's instead. It sucks and it's LOUD there, but at least it's not haunted, except by SneakyGirl, and her ghost isn't scary.

Because, apparently, I'll never sleep again, I found myself bored and looking for something to do. Also, because I'm easily amused, here's my last blog entry translated from English to Japanese and back to English again, all courtesy of Google.

Thought that trying to write for a bit before I tried to sleep with me. Some people are probably like me to avoid insomnia is inevitable, and perhaps it is I think that part, so even when I feel this journal has come a big fat slacker recently that.

Because my brain is pretty tired but I'm gonna let my fingers just typed. They are usually my brain to work better than anyway.

People ask me what. Over and over again and repeat the same thing. A typical question, "Are you retarded or what contains shit?" And, increasingly popular "Why?" And "rhetorical Really?"

No, I do not think so. However, I realize that I do is not it?

I should be.

Yes, really.

Wow, I just caught my own reading what I wrote it already. But if it is not a good thing. Give the complexity of the involvement of my brain that's it. My brain and my fingers sometimes, they do not like about it is that you get written a big fight. In not quite.

Past problems with me always, why? Question is that I must have been mental. However, for my people, they all can I just tell you shit back to the mentally retarded or something? Loop is ugly and a question.

How do I know anyone for any reason it? I have or something because I do not think what you mean and feel, or something. Many hours of life, a series that seems to me. Vindications of fact. I lit it I have smoked a cigarette. Because I bought it before I lit it. Since I had bought it running low. Because I smoked almost a pack that I was running low before. And so on.

For me this tobacco, smoking but I was born. There is, I'm happy now I'll go first?

This is the Big Bang happened is that I smoke this.

Oh, I seem to track a little turned off.

Why you do that if the Big Bang, that too.

What was it that what I write about vindication. I was going to use it in a sentence like: I have a reason not to shit, okay, I know that over the past six vindication and lessons learned from all available years.

So.

Has been proven to me anything wrong, I have gained the right means. And the right to form my opinions, but I had no reason at all, let alone asked to be correct, then I must be mental.

Failure not.

Why is the sky blue? Sun is hot or why? Why is water wet? Why is grass green? Her? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

Just because it's reason.

I thought I'd try to write for a bit before I tried to sleep. Some people probably think I'm just avoiding the inevitable insomnia, and maybe that's part of it, but I also feel like I've been a big fat slacker when it comes to this journal lately.

My brain is pretty tired, so I'm just going to let my fingers type for me. They usually do a better job than my brain, anyway.

People ask me stuff. The same things over and over and over and over. Typical questions include, "Are you fucking retarded or something?" and the ever-popular, "Why?" and the rhetorical, "Really?"

No, I don't think so. But if I were, would I realize it?

I'll get to that.

Yes, really.

Wow, I just caught myself reading what I'd already written. I'm not supposed to do that. It only complicates things when I let my brain get involved. Sometimes my brain doesn't like what my fingers have written and then they get into a big fight about it. It's not pretty.

The problem I've always had with the Why? question has been that I must be psychic. But I can't tell people that because then all they do is revert back to the Are you fucking retarded or something? question and it becomes an ugly loop.

How does anyone know the reason for anything? I mean the reason that they do something or think something or say something or feel something. A lot of the time life seems, to me, to be a series of after-the-fact vindications. I'm smoking a cigarette because I lit it. I lit it because I bought it earlier. I bought it because I was running low. I was running low because I'd smoked most of the previous pack. And so on and so on.

I'm smoking this cigarette because I was born. There, you happy now, or should I go further?

I'm smoking this cigarette because the Big Bang happened.

Whoa, I seem to have gone a little off-track.

I did that because of the Big Bang, too.

Vindication is what I was going to write about. I was going to use it in a sentence, as in: I don't fucking know why, okay, but everything I've learned in the past six years has provided vindication.

So there.

Nothing has proven me wrong, and so that means that I've been right. And, because I was right when I had absolutely no reason to even form an opinion, let alone the right one, then I must be psychic.

Not retarded.

Why is the sky blue? Why is the sun hot? Why is water wet? Why is grass green? Why her? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

Just because, that's why.

The question of what I'll be doing tonight - it didn't even need to be asked. I'm going to miss her. I just am. I can feel myself hurtling towards stage one at breakneck speed. Before too long, I'm going to hit that wall, and I'm going to lie in a heap for a while.

The only question I have is where I'll be doing this. Either here at home, or maybe at Bearno's, or maybe at Jack's. I should go to Jack's, but I doubt that I will. That place is becoming haunted, and I'm not sure that I need any more ghosts right now. Maybe I'll go if OddlyFamiliarGirl wants to go.

But I'm not complaining. I've been so spoiled these last few days. I got to spend a lot of time with HatGirl Saturday night, and today SneakyGirl paid me a surprise visit. Hell, even LaptopGirl herself managed to communicate with me a couple of times.

So, I'm not complaining. There's a price that I have to pay for daring to be happy, even if that happiness is in scattered bits and tiny pieces and fleeeting moments. And that price, I'm hurtling towards it.

Tonight, I will miss her. Tonight, I will be back where I belong, in a heap at the base of a wall that I can never seem to break through.

I've been trying to figure out just what, if anything, he was trying to accomplish by telling me. Perhaps I was supposed to be scared away. Perhaps I was supposed to get angry. Perhaps I'm supposed to care.

But I wasn't. And I didn't. And I don't.

Or maybe it was to ease some guilty feelings. Not for what had happened, but for the secrecy that had followed. If so, then guilt was unnecessary, and there's nothing for me to forgive.

In truth, I'd suspected it for years. After all, why should he be different than just about every other guy? I know that I, given the opportunity, would have jumped at it.

Oh, wait. I was given the opportunity, more than once, and I decided to be a nice guy instead of just a guy. I decided to do what was right instead of what was expected. But, of course, my circumstances have always been different, and so I have always been different.

Anyway, this thing, this thing that may or may not have been revealed in order to anger or sadden me, or to unburden a chest, it was a long time ago.

And, like I said, I don't care. It changes nothing.

It's instinctive, of course, but that doesn't make it boring or robotic. Instincts are translated to thoughts and emotions by our brains, and so everything makes perfect sense and it makes us feel like we're in control of things.

I don't have any kids, that lived, that I know of, so maybe I'm not the right person to be spouting any words, let alone advice, about parenting.

But, it's my blog, and I'm not forcing anyone to read it.

We want to shelter our children in their own little Garden of Eden for as long as we can, so that they can stay innocent for as long as they can. We feed them, clothe them, protect them. We teach them about all of the wonderful and amazing things that the world has to offer, and we watch in awe as they learn and embrace the truths that we show them. But the bad things, we hide the bad things from them. So that they won't find out. Not yet, anyway. We don't tell them that, while the world is full of love and wonders, it is also full of fear and pain.

There are terrible things in this world.

But I'm not one of them.

I said that I'd understand, and I do understand.

But I don't agree. Not at all.

So many times, I've thought it might be the last time. Not every time, but often enough. Too often, I mean.

It wasn't always like that. There were good times, lots of good times. There were nights that would end with the certainly that there'd be another day. On those nights, I slept well. I miss those nights, that confidence that I had, that it would continue for at least another day. That maybe it would continue forever.

The last time wasn't one of the good ones. The last time, like so many other times before, I heard the voice inside my head. "This could be the last time," it whispered.

"Make it last," it advised.

"Remember this," it urged.

"Never let go," it pleaded.

I didn't want to let go, not ever. I wanted to have and to hold and to protect and to cherish, but mostly I wanted to hold. To just hold on to, well, everything that matters to me.

But I didn't. I let go. I released my grip, and I let my arms fall back to my sides.

I wonder, Was that the last time?

This entry is mistitled. I'm not even close to being drunk. Oh well, can't be helped now. I've already typed the title.

Well my plan of just sitting in my garage and drinking didn't work out. I got through a bottle of Barfly and then, when I'd had just a couple sips of a second bottle's pouring, my phone rang.

What followed was pretty much the exact opposite of sitting in my garage by myself.

Anyway, it was a good night. Not because of the way it turned out, but I guess because of the way I managed to hold myself together long enough to be useful. And, not only that, I also got to say some things that I'd really needed to say.

See, just like everyone else, there are reasons for my being the way that I am. Reasons besides pure insanity, I mean.

And we certainly had a good example of insanity tonight, didn't we?

But I digress.

The reasons almost always exist, even if they're not known. I, for example, still have no idea what reason(s) there might have been for what happened to me a little over six years ago. But I do know, boy do I fucking know, why I hit rock-bottom a few months ago, and why I'm still down here, wallowing in the muck and the mud of my own misery.

Tonight, I got to state those reasons. So that made it a good night. Even if nothing else had happened, I was able to finally unburden myself a little. And I didn't get any back-talk. That really meant a lot to me.

And I was able to stand up for myself a little. By stating the simple truth that I don't know if things between us can ever work. It seems to me that we tried to make it work, for a long time, and it seems to me that we failed.

That I failed, I mean.

I don't know if we broke up or not. Definitions will vary, as will intentions. And results are unknowable at this time. It certainly felt like a break-up to me.

But I'll tell you something: If it was a break-up, then it was at least a proper one. Finally.

Had a nice dinner with HatGirl (Yay!) and her sister at Sportstime, except for that one five-year stretch when HatGirl went outside to talk on the phone. HatGirl's sister and I don't know each other well enough to sit comfortably in silence together.

Oh yeah, and there was a group of very LOUD girls in the next booth, and one of them looked enough like NormalGirl that I managed to convince myself that (a) it was her, and that (b) she hadn't said hello to me for some reason.

So I didn't acknowledge her either.

As it turned out, she had a very good reason for not saying hello. It wasn't her. I became certain that it wasn't her when she stood up. NormalGirl has a much nicer ass.

Anyway.

Tonight it's kinda nice outside. I'm going to go sit in my garage and drink some Barfly and glare at my phone.

It'll be fun!

I'm a little hung-over, thanks for asking. It's just the dehydration kind of hangover, though, not the kind where my hair hurts. So I'm drinking water, and then I'll be okay.

The wasps are back. Not the actual wasps from the Spring. They're all dead. These are new wasps. They're still assholes, though.

So, there is a very real chance that I'm drunk right now. But that's okay. It's 3:07 AM on a Thursday morning. I'm safely at home, where I plan to stay for the next several hours and/or days and/or weeks and/or months, at least until I become sober again. I am no menace to either myself or to society.

And besides, it's not even my fault at all that I'm maybe possibly drunk. And it's not even OddlyFamiliarGirl's fault, even though before her kind invitation I'd been planning to go to sleep at 7:00 or so, and after her kind invitation I ended up having a nice Marzen (16022) and a nice Urbock (437) while at Rich O's.

It is, of course, LaptopGirl's fault. Who's else would it be? She is, after all, the root of all evil and the fountain of all goodness in my life. Why shouldn't she also be in charge of my drunkenness or lack thereof?

So I ended up buying a bottle of Avery Reverend to take home with me, and then, because of the aforementioned you-know-who, I ended up drinking the damn thing (716) while I glared at my phone and replied to emails and strived to remain useful whilst I died inside.

I will be fair, though. I will share the blame. It was me who poured the beer from the bottle into the glass, and it was me who then poured the beer from the glass into my mouth.

Did you ever wish that water wasn't wet? Or that the sky wasn't blue? Or that the Sun wasn't hot and bright?

Or that love wasn't real?

Anyway, it just doesn't fucking matter. None of it does. I can no more take my heart back now than I could have resisted giving it away so long ago. It no longer belongs to me, and it never will again.

And the truth is that I like this mood I'm in right now. I'm fucking focused, after all. The universe, and the room, and the inside of my skull - these things are all quite blurry and wavy, but everything that matters is still in perfect focus.

I'm in love with her.

So there.

A lot of the fucking time, I wish that I wasn't in love with her.

So there again. Take that.

But wishes are as useful in my life as, as they say, screen doors on a submarine.

I sit here and I sit there and I sit wherever I might happen to be sitting, and I wish and I wish and I wish and I wish, and then on the good nights I wish no more, because I realize that it's a waste of time and effort.

Things are the way that they are. Things aren't the way that they aren't. Not a single thing that I do or say or think or feel will ever change anything, because it's not up to me, and it never has been up to me.

I did not lie.

Not even once.

Not even a little bit.

Lot of good that did me.

So there.

It's hard to tell from this crappy blurry photo, but that's my cat Buddy chillaxing again. It's even harder to tell that, once again, he's lying atop a pair of my blue jeans.

I ran across this old entry, from March of 2006. It amazes me how little has changed over the years.

The nice thing about this is that it's giving me something to think about, but the bad thing about this is that it's giving me something to think about.

Too many things, actually.

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.

This is a snippet of an email I sent RockGirl just now. I don't know wjhy I'm posting this here. Probably because I want to post something but I don't feel like writing anything.

...

So now guess the scenario that my brain has conjured up.

You don't even have to guess. You know me well enough.

And I really was thinking about going to Wick's. Even though it's gay, they have good pizza. I've been craving about 10 things all day, and I haven't made up my mind, and I haven't eaten anything at all. I'll probably starve to death before I decide what I want to eat.

The thing is, I think, that if I go to Wick's then I'll have a beer with my pizza. And if I have a beer with my pizza then I won't feel like going to Jack's. And I kinda think I might want to maybe go to Jack's tonight. I could just go to stupid Bearno's, but I really don't feel like getting food there again.

I went to Rich O's for a bit last night, after HatGirl and I parted company. I wasn't there very long. Just long enough for one beer, but it was long enough, I suppose.

Long enough to get me back into my old habits of flinching every time I'd hear a female voice, and of never ever turning my back on the door.

I'd been planning to just go to the Sportstime side of things, but a glance into the window had revealed that Sportstime was packed. Rich O's wasn't much better, but I was able to sit in the throne while I wondered (a) how stupid I was for being at Rich O's, and (b) who all those people were.

I didn't recognize a single person in that crowd. It was like I'd entered the wrong bar.

Anyway, I had myself a Marzen (15943) and then I left a little before 9:00.

Speaking of dreams, I just had a dream in which I spent a huge portion of time vacuuming. I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere.

Before that is the really weird part, though. My mom and I got into an argument, and she said something like, "Well your family would just buy you a new mansion!"

And I said, "Wait, aren't you my mom? Isn't this my family?"

"That's what we've wanted you to think," she replied.

Weird.

And so, now I'm back. Where I belong.

Where breaths are lies, because I don't want to take them.

Where heartbeats do nothing more than mark wasted time.

Where moods and thoughts and musings are nothing more than faint textures fumblingly etched onto a terrible canvas.

Where I hold my tongue, as much as I can, because I cannot scream and because screaming is all that would be worthy. Where it doesn't make sense. Where there's no explanation. Where I can't be trusted.

Where it's all just too weird.

Where I pretend, all the time, that I'm moving toward something or away from something, but where I'm really just standing still. Rooted in this here and this now and this what and this why. Because there's nowhere else to go, and because there's nowhere else I want to be.

Where I belong.

Where I miss her.

I've been sleeping a lot lately. At least twelve hours every day. I've been dreaming a lot.

Goodnight, cruel world.

I haven't done one of these in a while. Probably because it's a hassle.

And, upon watching the video, I saw that I'd said MisunderstoodGirl when I meant to say MixedSignalGirl. Not that I don't also miss MisunderstoodGirl, it's just that she's not one of the first people who came to mind.

As I write this, they're still looking for the kid.

I just wanted to say how freaking weird it was for me to be watching the thing on my TV. The footage of the landing that I saw showed a fairly gentle landing. But then people rushed the balloon thingy and started whacking it with shovels and stabbing it with pitchforks.

Because that's what you're always supposed to do when you think there might be a little boy inside. Either those things or the complete opposite. I forget which.

I was surprised that they didn't whip out their firearms and shoot it full of holes.

Had a dream about her today. It might have been a bit fever-born, hard to tell if I feel like crap because I'm sick or because, well, because of everything else.

It was some huge party at someone's house. I don't know who the house belonged to, but they were clearly rich. Anyway, everyone was there. Everyone from Rich O's, and everyone from my family, and others who I'm assuming were members of other people's families.

It was like a combination Halloween and Thanksgiving party, as there seemed to be elements of both holidays present.

I only got to see her a couple of times, for a total of maybe three seconds, so one might be tempted to say that my dream wasn't really about her at all. But, it was my dream, and so I know the truth. The truth was that I spent every second of that dream, wandering from room to room, ignoring the partying going on therein, looking for her.

I found her a couple of times, off in the distance, but when I moved closer, she had moved on.

I was carrying a little black and white kitten, and I wanted to give it to her.

That was going to be my excuse for getting to talk to her, anyway.

Happy birthday to my sister Neisha!

Okay, I stopped going to facebook for a reason. Maybe a stupid reason, but a necessary one.

I need to stay in the dark about some things.

And it does me no good whatsoever when you people email me with quotes and opinions.

When I fall apart, it's not going to be her fault, it's going to be yours.

The other night, Saturday in fact...

First, HotEuchreGirl came in with her friend who's name I can never remember.

I said hello them, and HotEuchreGirl asked how LaptopGirl was doing.

"I have no idea," I answered. Partly because I had no idea, and partly because it was none of her business, but mostly because LaptopGirl gets mad at me when I admit to any knowledge of her existence.

Then, HotEuchreGirl's friend (HEGF) asked, "But aren't you dating LaptopGirl?!?"

Sigh.

Oh yeah, HEGF also bummed a cigarette off me, and hinted that she was very grateful.

Shudder.

Anyway, then NotHideousGirl came in and I gave her a hug and she sat next to me at the island.

I felt either a tap on my shoulder or a hand groping me. I wasn't sure which, and I was a little afraid to investigate.

"So is that your girlfriend?" HEGF asked me, indicating NotHideousgirl.

Sigh.

Then, a while later, we were all sitting at the island. HEGF was sitting next to HatGirl, and I heard her ask HatGirl, "Are you and Dave dating?"

Sigh.

The funny part was that HatGirl answered with, "Actually, I'm married."

Which didn't quite answer HEGF's question, I noticed.

Sigh.

Anyway, WTF was the deal with HEGF prying so deeply into my (lack of) love life?

Shudder.

Also, HotEuchreGirl looked very cute.

Sigh.

I'm sure that every who knows me would shake their head in some assholish combination of pity and disappointment over what I did late Friday night.

But, Oh well.

How could I refuse?

Answer: I couldn't fucking refuse.

And it's okay. It really is. I feel better now, because I got an explanation of sorts, for the way I've been treated lately. One that I can actually believe, if you can believe that. I needed that explanation even more than I thought. I needed it more than I needed to breathe.

And it's also okay because I got to be useful again, albeit for just one night.

Not that kind of night, you perverts!

And all that stuff about getting to be a part of her life again, and getting to be a part of the kid's life again?

Well, I knew it was bullshit all along, as it was being said, and she would have known it too, had she been sober.

I don't pity myself over what I did, and I'm not disappointed in myself. And I'm neither disappointed nor surprised over how it turned out. And my opinion is the only one that really matters in this case, so the rest of you can go tsk tsk over someone else.

I have too much stuff. Way too much. And it's not like I can look around and ask where it all came from. I know where it all came from. Some of it I inherited from my dad, and some of it was already in my house when I bought it, but 99% of the stuff came from me.

My office is the worst. I don't even know where to start with that room. Books and papers and old computer parts are only the beginning. In the closet are boxes and boxes of random stuff. All over the floor are piles of more random stuff.

Other closets aren't much better. In the closet of my guest room are more computer parts, and a tent, and a sleeping back, and a dozen or so picture frames. My master bedroom closet is supposed to be a walk-in, but it's so crammed with luggage and clothes that it's more of a climb-in closet than a walk-in.

The walls of my attached garage are lined with various crap that I didn't feel like lugging into the house. The entire detached garage is crammed with tools and lawnmowers and boxes and el-cheapo plastic furniture.

And downstairs, the unfinished room in my basement - the official storage room I suppose - is full of even more stuff. Stuff that I've neither seen nor used in ten years. Plus a dozen or so vacuum cleaners. I seem to have a weird obsession with vacuum cleaners. Not with using them, just buying them.

There are things that I still haven't unpacked from when I moved in. I keep saying that I'll get around to it someday.

I have six televisions, at least as many DVD players. Four Tivos, and several million instances of random home theater components in varying states of functionality.

I have two fucking pool tables. Who does that?

Back in the early Summer, when it looked like I might have to sell my house and move away, the thing that I most dreaded was sorting through all that stuff. Deciding what to take with me, and what to put in storage, and what to sell, and what to give away, and what to throw away.

It was all so very daunting.

I'm glad that I didn't have to do it.

So.

One week. Seven days. One hundred sixty-eight hours.

How could I up and disappear like that? How could I be so insensitive? Don't I know that I have readers?

Yeah, well, my readers will just have to deal with it. It happened, and it's ongoing, despite any evidence this entry may present to the contrary.

Anyway.

It just wasn't working. Too many temptations. Too many reminders. Too many opportunities. For self-pity, and failure, and stupidity.

My life was broken.

So the first thing I did was send an email. One that was long-overdue.

After that, I stopped.

I stopped as much as I could. I stopped going to facebook, lest I be reminded. I stopped going to Rich O's for the same reason, and also so that I wouldn't be coerced. I stopped drinking, hoping that I wouldn't get into one of those moods. I stopped writing here, so I wouldn't be tempted to scream.

I stopped all of these things, and more, in an effort to...

I don't really know.

Not to forget, that's for sure. I'll never forget, no matter how badly I want to.

Not to get on with my life. There's no point to that. Humpty Dumpty cannot be reassembled.

Not to get over it. There's no way I'll ever get over it as long as I know that, the next time I see her face, or hear her voice, or even the next time I get an inane email or text message, it will all come rushing back.

I guess, if I have to give a reason, I guess I'm just tired.