I'd thought that Charleston would be like Portland, Maine. I don't know why thought that, exactly. I guess because they're both old harbor cities. I really liked Portland when I went there in 2005, and I was thinking that Charleston would be the same, except (a) warm, and (b) there would be more women wearing big hats.

Well, it most definitely wasn't warm. Maybe in the 40s, but with a wind chill of a billion below zero. I did see several women in hats, but I suspect that they were planted there to fool the tourists.

There were a lot of tourists. Many more than I was expecting. Most of them seems to be riding around in horse-drawn carriages and blocking the streets. I was there on Friday morning, and all of the street and sidewalks were packed with tourists. I'd hate to see what it's like on a weekend.

In the end, I didn't stay in Charleston. My biggest problem was that it just didn't feel right to me. It seemed like a couple's town. There was a huge historic district, full of shops and bars and such, just made for walking and exploring, but not by a single person. I dunno, it was just a vibe I got.

If I decided to write something every day, which I haven't done, I think it would be hard.

It seems to me that there are two primary sources of inspiration for blog entries.

1. Something that I've been thinking about.
2. Something that happened.

Well, as I've said before, I have too much of one thing and not enough of the other.

I could, if I was really determined, write about the rainstorm that trapped me at the mall today. About how it trapped me just outside the JC Penney, with about a dozen old women. We all stood under this awning, waiting for the rain to let up so we could get to the parking lot dryly.

I could also write about how, after about five minutes, I realized that there I was, ostensibly a man, cowering with a bunch of old women, and that perhaps I should just grow a pair and fuck it and get wet.

Then I could write about how, after about three steps into that rain, I was as wet as I'd have been if I'd just jumped into a lake.

But I won't write about any of that stuff, because it's boring.

You can thank me later.

Then I had Red Lobster for dinner, and it was yummy. Company would have been nice, though.

That's boring, too.

As long as I'm repeating myself over and over and over, I'll say that sometimes I really wish I could still write.

I have lots of ideas for blog entries. No, really, I do. Please stop laughing.

Like tonight. I was watching this movie that this one girl says is about this one dipshit, and it gave me an idea for a blog entry. It's a really good idea, and one that I haven't touched upon here before.

And that, unfortunately, takes me back to where I started.

I wish I could still write.

Because this is, like I just got done saying, a good idea for an entry. It could be funny and sad and thought provoking and maybe even moving. Tears of laughter would intermingle with regular tears. Yes, it's that good.

So good that I find myself woefully unworthy of writing about it. It deserves better than me.

I keep thinking, hoping, that it will come back. That elusive quality that my words used to have. Where I'd come back weeks or months or even years later, reread some words I'd once written, and think, "Wow, I did a hell of a good job with this entry. Almost like a real writer."

But, right now, tonight and this week and this year and fuck even this decade I suppose, that old spark just isn't there. I certainly try, every now and then when I feel like it, but my words no longer live up to my thoughts.

With all that drivel said, here is, in my opinion, the best thing I ever wrote.

This isn't going to work. But I guess I'll try. I said that I would, after all.

My brain is useless right now. Too much NABC Cone Smoker (6028). So I'll let my fingers do the writing. Such as it will probably be.

That last sentence made perfect sense to me, by the way.

I'm supposed to write about faith. This is, believe it or not, something with which I am intimately familiar.

Because I fucking have it.

Not in a supreme being, like too many of my friends. Not in karma, like a lot of my more hippiefied friends. And not even in myself, as I'm so often urged to do.

Fuck that. Who am I to deserve such consideration? Such faith?

I believe in one thing. I trust in one thing. I live for one thing. I have faith in one thing.

Love.

Weird, I know.

But it's never wavered, not even once, not even a little bit. Everything else stands on wobbly legs and sways dangerously and threatens to collapse and kill and maim, but love is a fucking rock. It's a rock shored up by other rocks, defended by more rocks, and camouflaged by even more rocks.

I know, that's a stupid series of metaphors. But it's about as true as my fingers can type right now.

People look at me, quite often, like I'm crazy. It used to bother me. But now, now I think they're just jealous.

Because, no matter how unwarranted or undeserved or unjustified or just plain silly and stupid this might be, it's still more real than anything most of those other people have ever experienced.

And it will continue. It will remain. It will last until, eventually, sooner or later, it will be my dying thought.

I have zero doubt about this. This will happen. I have faith in it.

So there.

I dreamed that I was asleep on my couch. Or, maybe it was my grandmother's couch. It's hard to tell, all those dream couches look alike. Plus, it was night in my dream.

In my dream, I heard a noise. Just a noise, no more describable than that. I opened my eyes just in time to see somebody walk up to the couch and crash a baseball bat down on my head.

Ouch.

I felt every bit of the pain from that blow, just before I blacked out.

Okay, this is just about the best use of the internet that I've ever seen.

Go, and read the whole thing. You won't be disappointed.

When I told RockGirl that I'd gotten a permanent job offer today, and that I'd accepted it, she replied with, "Yay, I guess."

By the way, I italicized that word above because, as I learned a little over a year ago, permanent doesn't really mean what people think it means.

Anyway, I knew exactly what RockGirl meant.

After exhaustive research, I have determined that money is a good thing to have. But, another thing that's good to have is tons of freedom.

Sometimes, you can't have them both. Sometimes, you have to choose.

And, since my grand lottery plan never did work out, I had to choose. I chose money, and everything that comes with money. Food, housing, etc.

Plus, I'm really excited about this job. I know, everybody says that, but I really am.

I get so tired at around this time every night.

"Fine," I say. "I'll just go to sleep and then wake up at a resonable time tomorrow morning. It'll get my schedule back to normal. It'll be awesome."

But noooooooooooooooo!

If I go to sleep now, then I'll suddenly find myself wide awake around midnight, scratching my head and wondering what it was that woke me up so completely.

And then I'll be up until 6:00 or so tomorrow morning.

The thing is, this has been an utterly relationship-changing event. Perhaps even a relationship-destroying event.

Why am I the only one who see this?

And I don't normally believe in slippery slopes, but this one is totally frictionless!

Why am I the only one bothered by this? Why am I the only one devastated by this.

She would probably say she's just being optimistic, but the truth is that she is being very naive.

I guess I always think it's funny when people read what little I allow myself to post here and they think they're experts on my life and thoughts. Either that, or it pisses me off. I forget which.

I took a walk. Not a long one, maybe just a couple of miles. To the end of my road and back. It was a little chilly, and a little drizzly at times, but it was still nice. As an unexpected bonus, I got to pet a kitty in the gas station parking lot.

I never did get anywhere, though. Not really.

RockGirl was telling me about a movie she'd seen, with a quote that went something like, "half the people are running toward happiness, and the others are running away from sadness."

I like that quote. I'm not really sure where I fit into it. Usually I feel like I'm just spinning in place. Sometimes I get dizzy.

I think that tonight, I was walking away from something. I had two ideas for blog entries. I didn't really want to write either of them. Both are bad ideas, but both need to be said.

I walked, like I said, for a couple of miles. It wasn't nearly far enough. I never escaped these ideas. They followed me. They're still here.

So, apparently, Pizza Hut is now hiring disabled people to take phone orders. Good for them, I guess.

Before this, I was pretty sure that I'd seen every possible misspelling of my last name. Even the infamous Sililililitz from 1986.

For an added chuckle compare the phone number to my actual number.

People ask me. All the damn time, they ask me.

I tell them that I don't know. Then, in a somewhat firmer voice, I state that I don't want to talk about it.

That second part is kind of a lie. The insistence in my voice is as much for my own benefit as it is for my interrogators.

Because, I do want to talk about it. I want another pair of ears to hear the story. I want another brain to process the information. I want another pair of lips to, I suppose, explain to me that which I haven't been able to explain to myself. I want, maybe even need, a different perspective.

I desperately want to talk about it.

But, I don't. I'm trying to be a nice guy, after all. Deserved or not, I'm trying.

So, I don't talk about. I pretend that my silence is my choice, but it's not. I don't talk about it because she doesn't like it when I talk about it. And I don't blame her for that. I'd be the same way, in her situation. Whatever that might be.

That first part, however, from way back at the beginning of this stupid entry, is the truth; I really don't know what's going on.

I have my suspicions and opinions, though. And I don't like them very much.

And I really really really wish that I didn't care. My life would be so much easier, if I could just stop caring.

But, I do care. I suspect that I will always care.

That suspicion scares the shit out of me.

Yeah, I'm awake again. Been that way for a couple of hours. So I got five hours of sleep. That should be enough, even for the long day ahead of me. Heck, it might even help to get me back onto a normal schedule.

In a few hours I get to drive to Bumfuck, Egypt, to attend my uncle's funeral. There seems to me some confusion, at least on my part, about exactly when the thing is happening. Either noon or 11:00. So I'll show up in time for either schedule.

That will all eat about four hours out of my day, I think. Then I have a dinner date with HatGirl! Yay! That will be nice. It's been a long time. I hope she doesn't cancel on me again.

Then, I dunno. Maybe Rich O's will be safe. I doubt it, though.

Okay, so I wrote this back in 1996:

A million times.

Disappointment times a million.

It never fades. It never gets any easier. It always astounds me with its intensity.

Someday, it will end.

Someday, in a portion of a fraction of an instant, disappointment will transform into joy.

Until then, disappointment will be my reason for living. My purpose. My destiny. My fucking calling.

After that, well I guess I'll have to wait and see what happens after that.

Anyway, that one sentence - the one about joy?

Hope is what caused me to write that sentence.

I miss having a reason to write sentences like that.

Maybe someday, somehow, I'll have another reason...

Damn. There I go again, having stupid hope.

I find this mood, every now and then. It's a little hard to describe, but I'll try. It's not like I've got anything better to do.

For the longest time, I was that guy. Everyone who knows me, and some who don't, know what I mean by that. I was that guy who...who...who...

Well, I guess I don't want to say it. It's been said a million times already, and its always fallen on deaf ears. Deaf and doubting and disbelieving ears. I won't say that my words were wasted, but that's probably just because I'm being stubborn. If I wasted the words, then I wasted my life. And I don't want to say that. Not yet.

So anyway, there I was, being that guy, and then, then I wasn't anymore. I was someone else.

I mean, I am someone else.

But I'm not sure who, exactly.

I spend an inordinate amount of time searching for clues to my identity. I search my heart, my mind. Sometimes, I search the bottom of a glass. Sometimes, I drive to South Carolina or Covington or Nashville. I fly to Las Vegas. I search and I search, but I elude myself. As I've written before, I'm a slippery bastard.

Every now and then, not as often as I'd like but more often than I'd expect, I find myself in a certain mood. It's the mood I'm in right now.

It's not that I've given up, on this quest for myself. It's not even like I've taken a break. It's more like, like it just slips my mind. Like I forget for a while. I forget, not only that I've changed, but that I exist in the first place.

I'm a disinterested spectator of my own existence.

It's a peaceful mood, but a little boring.

Of course, by writing this entry, I've reminded myself that I don't know who I am anymore. So the search renews. Maybe I'll go out to my garage for a while. There might be storms tonight, and who knows?

Maybe I'm already out there, waiting to be found.

This is a snippet from something I wrote a long time ago. I happened to run across it tonight.

I've lost so many dreams.

Too many to count and too many to even estimate. Some, I've let go all on my own, and some I've had ripped away from me while I screamed and clawed and frantically tried with every tiny bit of my being to just hold on for a little bit longer.

Four hours seems to be my limit on sleep. No matter how tired I think I am, no matter if I feel like I could sleep forever, I always seem to wake up after a couple of hours.

And I don't even seem to wake up like a normal person. There's no period of drowsiness to ease the transition. Nope, one second I'm asleep, and the next second I'm wide awake.

Sometimes, I can remember the dream or the stray thought that so forcefully awakened me, but not often, or even most of the time. Most of the time, it just happens.

So, I get out of bed and I find something to do.

Tonight, I started feeling really tired around 9:30. I was out in my garage, glaring at my phone, waiting for it to woohoo or quack at me. I decided that, if I hadn't heard anything by 10:30, I'd go to bed and sleep forever.

Well, I didn't hear anything by 10:30, so I went to bed. My phone did quack around 11:00, so that was nice. By some miracle, I was able to go back to sleep after that.

I slept until a little after 2:00, when I found myself wide awake.

So, I got up, watched some old episodes of Lost, and then sat down to write this boring entry.

I often feel like I'm repeating myself. This is no great stretch of the imagination, because it's often true.

I often feel like I'm repeating myself. Here, in this blog, I mean. So maybe I've said this before. I could search back through over 3,500 old blog entries and find out, but I won't.

That would be too hard, and stuff.

That's what she said.

Anyway. I didn't want to ramble too much. I only wanted to maybe repeat myself. Maybe.

I never thought much about kids. Not any more than normal. Some people might know that I used to have kids, sort of. They were their mother's kids; I was just a stepfather for a while. They were great kids, and I loved them, but then their mother and I went our separate ways, and after a while I stopped thinking about them. I dunno, maybe it was too painful. Whatever.

My sisters have kids, and I'm not the Uncle Dave I would like to be with them. I was off to a good start, I think, when Dina's first two kids were little. But then they grew up and we grew apart. And Neisha's kids always lived on Mars with their parents. At least, that's the excuse that I use. For not being a better Uncle Dave. Same excuse I use regarding Dina's youngest son.

Things are how they are. Kids exist and I tolerate them and sometimes I like them and I'm almost always at least nice to them.

I never thought much about kids. Until...

Wow, I don't think that I'm really allowed to say. That sucks.

So what I wanted to write about now is that, now, I think about kids. All the time.

I think about a baby girl. A daughter, just like her mother. Full of laughter and sparkles and oh so very beautiful and sweet.

Just like her mother.

Whoever that might be.

It's breaking the unwritten rule, I know. Men are supposed to want a son, especially for their first born. It's been a cliché forever; men want a son first.

Not me.

Maybe it's because I'm old enough to feel that even having one child is a pipe dream. Maybe I realize that one child is, at most, all I could ever have. And, the thing is, if one child is all I can father, I want that child to be a daughter.

Just like her mother.

Whoever that might be. She will be so wonderful, though.

I want that to be my gift, someday, somehow. A beautiful baby girl. The greatest gift that any man could ever give to the woman he loves. And it would never have to be repaid, because we would share the gift with each other.

She will be so wonderful.

Just like her mother.

Often, I feel like I'm repeating myself.

Every week or two, I'm supposed to move my oldest quickies to their own blog entry. I haven't done it since November. I guess I've been busy and/or distracted.