I've got to do something about this schedule I've been keeping. It's just not working. By the time the weekend comes around, I don't want to do anything but sleep for 48 hours. And that's even going to bed early, sometimes as early as 8:00 PM, on weeknights.

It's not like I'm really missing anything by going to bed so early, but it could happen, maybe. That thought nags at me when I go to bed and turn off the sounds on my phone.

There are things I like about getting up at 5:00 AM. First, I like that I don't feel rushed at all. I could probably sleep until 7:30 most mornings, but then I'd have to rush getting showered and shaved and dressed and out the door. I'd have to hope that there were no traffic problems, and then I'd have to go straight in to work as soon as I arrived.

Taking my time is much better. I leave my house by 7:00. Only very rarely is traffic bad enough to make me worry about being late. I get to work between 7:30 and 8:00, and I sit in the parking lot for a while. It's my favorite part of the day, that time before I go into the building.

But, I've been thinking, if I want to leave my house by 7:00, I could sleep until 6:30 and still manage that feat. Getting up at 5:00 gives me time to relax before I have to start getting ready for work, but lately I've been thinking that those extra 90 minutes would serve me better if they were tacked on to the end of the day instead of first thing in the morning.

I'll keep you all posted. Try not to fall off the edge of your seats.

I forgot that I'm supposed to write something every day.

Today, I thought I'd ask the world two questions that have been bugging me.

Why is it that big fat hogs have to slowly walk down the middle of the hallway and block me from walking at a normal pace? Why can't they walk more off to the side?

Here's the most boring guy in the world, talking about the end of the world.

I think that all I want to say right now is this:

I don't care how fast you're driving. If people are passing you, in either lane but especially on your right, then you're going too fucking slow.

Please speed up, or die. Your choice.

Your cooperation in this matter is greatly appreciated.

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.

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'd like one of each, please.

I ran across this thing last night; it was a site about writing. It was a site about writing 750 words every day, to be precise. Supposed to be good for the soul and stuff.

I thought it was a good idea, and much more doable - I calculate: twice as doable - as the 1500 words per day that something like nanowrimo would require.

It's so tempting, to start writing regularly again. I think about it all the time. I mean, what's stopping me?

That's not very many words. It's not even close to 750 words. But, I need to stop now.

I don't know what's stopping me, but something is.

Dammit, I miss her. I'm not supposed to, but I fucking do.

So there.

Everybody up here looks like somebody. It's the weirdest thing.

It's not like when I go to most cities, and everyone looks familiar, like I might have seen them before. It's also not like the last time I was in Las Vegas, when every girl I saw reminded me of either LaptopGirl or Hatgirl. Nope, up here in Bellingham, everybody looks like a specific person that I know.

All hyperbole aside, it's a phenomenon that's happening often enough that it freaks me out a little.

Up here, I've had a beer with a girl who looked so much like SassyGirl that I almost gave her a hug when she sat next to me. I've gotten my hairs cut by a girl I dated in high school. I've seen MusicalYuppieDude lose badly at poker. I've seen CrazyGirl get shitfaced enough to make moves on TallLady. I've seen my sister Dina having dinner at Olive Garden. I go to a gas station in the mornings and buy a Diet Pepsi from the fucking dipshit, of all people.

And, of course, I've seen HatGirl and LaptopGirl about twenty times each.

I could go on and on. There have probably been fifty instances of these things.

Sometimes, it's felt like I wasn't gone at all.

I think I'm finally starting to adjust to this time zone. The adjustment isn't complete, but I can tell it's happening.

I pretty much go to bed at a "normal" time. For me, that's somewhere between midnight and 1:00 AM. And to me, it feels like it's between midnight and 1:00 AM. This isn't what it felt like when I first got here. Back then it always felt like I wasn't going to bed until after 3:00 AM. That part of my brain was still stuck in the Eastern time zone.

I don't have any problem getting up at 7:00 either. I'm sure that's partly because the time to get up part of my brain is still in the good old EST - it thinks I get to sleep until 10:00 every day - but the fact that I go to bed at a normal time certainly helps. This helps me on weekdays, but it's a pain in the ass on weekends when I want to sleep in but my circadian rhythm wakes me up before 8:00 AM.

Another place where the adjustment is far from complete is between the hours of, say, 2:00 PM and 5:00 PM. The last three hours of work. My EST-accustomed brain is convinced that my work day is over, and it's a real chore to stay awake and alert.

And it doesn't help that it gets dark so soon at this latitude. When I left Indiana, sunset was probably around 7:00 PM. In Bellingham, it's dark by 4:30.

Anyway, I guess that's it.

Okay, this is a really sad entry I wrote a few years ago. I must have been in a really weird mood to be able to write this.

okay, this was hard to write

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.

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.

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.

Just to clarify, I did vote for Obama. But maybe I didn't do it for the right reasons.

I voted for him because he's black. And because he wasn't Sarah Palin. But mostly because he's black.

I remember saying, back before the campaigns even began, that Osama bin Laden could run as a Democrat against the Republican second coming of Jesus Christ (of Nazareth, heh), and still win in a landslide. So great was the hatred for Bush, and by extension, the hatred for all white male Republicans, fuck, even Dukakis might have had a chance in 2008.

Now, that's not to take away from what Obama did. Not at all. But I do think that, in 2017 when his reign ends, the greatest thing he'll have ever done will be to have been elected President while simultaneously being black.

And this was no small feat.

By being elected, he gave hope to millions of Americans, and he smashed excuses for those same millions and for millions more. No longer can a black person - or any member of any minority for that matter - give up on themselves because the system is against them. The system may still be against them, but no longer can that be their excuse.

I saw it in the eyes of blacks all over Louisville, right after the election, and I still see it today. Not just pride, they always had pride, but hope.

What other president can do what Obama has done, simply by being elected?

Hillary could have done similarly, albeit for a different group of people, and I believe that she would have made a better president than Obama. But elections are never about who would perform better in office. Elections are about who's the better candidate. And Obama was definitely the better candidate. In many ways, he still is, as he's already campaigning for his re-election bid in 2012.

The man is never off-stage, and he knows it.

And besides, he's not Sarah Palin.

So apparently our President gave a speech last night. I was asleep, paying what I believe that was the proper amount of attention, but a lot of people actually watched the thing. And then they started talking about it and writing about it. So far this morning I've heard and read reactions of two distinct flavors:

1. Oh noes! The death camps are going to get me!

2. All hail Barack Obama!

And then people on both sides call the people on the other side a bunch of poopie-heads.

In other words, nothing has changed. Despite the fact that we've got a young, charismatic, and black man for a President, we're still just as polarized as ever.

On the one side, we have the cautionaries. This camp subscribes to the Slippery Slope Theory of Everything, and a typical argument from them might be, If stem cell research is allowed to continue, before too long abortions will be mandatory so the labs can meet their quotas.

And then we have the reactionaries. To them, everything is broken, and so everything needs fixing. Oh, and it needs to be fixed the right way, which just happens to be their way. A typical statement from a reactionary might be, Blah Obama blah blah change blah hope blah Bush sucks blah.

I bet most of us would like to see ourselves as standing somewhere between these two extremes. And maybe we do, most of the time, but there are issues for each of us that force us to one side or the other. What bothers me is that some people become so firmly entrenched in their camp that it becomes useless to talk to them at all. I call these people assholes.

Don't get me wrong, though; some of my best friends are assholes.

There's this chick who makes a living from her blog. If my understanding is correct, she supports a family of four with her blog. And one of those four is a baby, which of course costs about eleven million times more than a regular person.

That would be pretty cool, I think, if I could somehow make a living from blogging. I'd have to break my own rule about advertising, but the ads on her site are pretty unobtrusive. I think I could live with something like that.

Of course, Heather is a much better writer than I am, but maybe I could get better with practice. And I'd have to get over this whole self-censorship nonsense that I keep running up against, but it's not like I've been perfect in that regard anyway.

It's giving me something to think about, that's for sure. Something else, that is.

So let me get this straight. These two guys are going to the flipping White House to have beers with the flipping President of the flipping United States, and they've chosen Red Stripe and Blue Moon.

A Jamaican pale lager and a pseudo-Belgian. That just seems so sad to me. It's like they put zero effort into their choices at all.

And the flipping President has chosen Bud Light.

And most of the people at Rich O's, myself included, voted for the guy.

If I ever have a beer with the flipping President - any day now, I'm sure - it's going to be an Alaskan Smoked Porter.

Here are three totally unrelated things that piss me off.

---

Brown-nosed idiots.

At least know someone well enough to form a knowledgeable opinion before you bury your nose in their ass.

---

"Incapable of supporting life."

Life can exist in the most unlikely of places. You people are scientists, you're supposed to know this. Read some books by Robert L. Forward if you need a refresher for your imagination, and then stop saying stupid things.

---

Typos.

Like the one I had in the title of this entry for over six hours.

I've noticed. Of course I've noticed. I've just been waiting for others to notice.

I am no longer allowed to complain that I don't have anything about which to write.

It's all there. All those damn quickies that I write. Up to a dozen or so each day, perhaps. Each one is basically a topic sentence for an entry waiting to be written. Straining to be written.

I need to stop whining, and I need to start writing. Or maybe I should do both.

That's what people expect from me, after all.

As it's looking more and more like I'm not going to be finding anything in Louisville anytime soon, it's looking more and more like I'm going to be leaving here for a while. Currently, I guess Cincinnati has the highest probability. That wouldn't be bad at all. It would allow me to come home whenever I felt like it.

Anyway, I'm checking out lodging costs up there. Not good. If I choose something like an Extended Stay, I'm effectively doubling my monthly housing costs. It should be possible to just get a furnished apartment for less money, though that brings more hassles.

I simply don't want to sell my house. I'm being quite stubborn about it. I can be that way.

Plus, the only reason I need to look elsewhere for work is to make my mortgage payments. If I were to sell my house, then I could just get a lower-paying job right here locally. So wanting to keep my house is what's making me need to leave my house. Pretty screwed-up, I know.

I could maybe accomplish the same thing by just refinancing and getting a lower mortgage payment. Problem with that, of course, is that getting refinanced without a job might be tricky.

I was reading some old entries this morning and this one made me laugh out-loud and scare my cats. Sometimes I think I'm really funny.

I think that if I could pick a mental illness to have, I'd pick Tourette's Syndrome.

That way, when I thought some girl was a whore, I could just scream out, "WHORE!!!!" and then when she got mad I could say, "Sorry, I got this Tourette's thingy. Whore. Slut. Bitch. Oops."

Then maybe she'd feel sorry for me and then the whore would give me some pity sex.

We discussed this. I got permission to write this.

We went into this with good intentions. Maybe not the best of intentions, but still good ones. Innocent ones. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. It wasn't supposed to end like this, but it was supposed to end. Someday. But not like this.

We were so well-balanced. Not lopsided at all. Not the way my last relationship was. That was so fucking lopsided that there are many who wouldn't call it a relationship at all. Well, fuck them, I say. It most certainly was a relationship, just a very lopsided one.

Anyway.

The two of us, we were balanced. We knew each other quite well. We trusted each other. We liked each other a lot. And we'd each learned some tricks in the last three years, so that part was fantastic. And the timing was good. We needed each other. Each of us on the rebound, each of us desperately seeking distraction, neither of us looking for anything long-term, neither of us ready for anything serious.

Nothing serious with each other, I should clarify.

It was supposed to be fun, and it was certainly fun. It was supposed to be a distraction, and it was definitely that as well. It was supposed to be casual, though, and that's where we fucked up.

We didn't want to progress at all, but we did. We went from fuckbuddies to boyfriend/girlfriend before either of us realized what was happening. This was bad, because neither of us wanted that kind of relationship. Neither of us was ready for that kind of relationship.

Not with each other, I should clarify again.

So we found ourselves in a dilemma. The casual relationship we'd initially tried to have wasn't going to be enough for us, but the more serious relationship that had developed - it had developed too soon. It was doomed, from the second it began.

These torches we carry, see, they're not for each other.

We asked ourselves and each other a question.

Would we have a better chance trying to tough it out right now, or should we wait a few months and see if we're ready then?

We both came up with the same answer. Whatever might happen in a few months is irrelevant. What's relevant is that right now, there is no way we could make it work. We're both in love with someone else, and those feelings must and will take priority for us, even if they don't deserve it.

This is not about waiting or hoping for a lost love to come back into our lives. Nope, this is about acceptance. When we can accept, in our hearts, that we're alone, then that is when we'll be ready to stop being alone.

This may take a long time. It may take forever. It may never happen. Such is life, and such is love.

I have this competitive side. Not a lot of people see it, except when I'm shooting pool, but it rears its ugly head every now and then for other things. Bowling. Horseshoes. Euchre. Darts.

Darts is what caused it to awaken tonight.

The first game, OtherDave was kicking my ass at first. I couldn't get the damn house-darts to fly straight, let alone in the direction I desired. I think he closed out everything except bulls before I closed 20s.

But, I found my elusive alignment, and I came back and I won that game. Via luck, OtherDave insisted.

The second game was a joke. Although I really was trying, OtherDave constantly accused me of fucking around as I mowed through the scores, easily winning by a score of about 11,000,000 to zero.

The third game, I threw one dart to his three darts per turn. Once I'd closed everything but bulls, I switched to throwing left-handed. I don't think OtherDave noticed - he was too busy trying to find the dartboard along with the proper words to describe his new hatred for me.

"Teach me a lesson," I implored. "I'm being a real dick right now. Make me regret it."

But alas, it was not meant to be. I won that third game as easily as I'd won the second, just with two-thirds fewer darts. And opposite-handed, at the end.

I can certainly be a dick sometimes, because of my competitive side, but I always try to make up for it in other ways.

Like tonight, I paid for his beers.

I'm not all bad.

Go here and read it.

So I've thought about it, and I've thought about it some more.

I'm not going to say, not just yet.

No need to ruin their good time.

Every now and then something will strike me as being really funny, and I'll just start laughing. Usually I keep my laughter inside, but not always. And it usually happens at the most inappropriate times. Sometimes I just can't help but laugh at the absurdity.

---

Every now and then I'll reach out. For answers, or for comfort, or for companionship - it doesn't matter - and I'll end up with a big handful of nothing. One might think that I'd eventually stop doing this, but instead it only strengthens my resolve to try harder next time.

---

I had way too much caffeine today. And now I'm wired.

---

I've been working on a simple little twitter-like thingy for this site, so I can just use my blackberry to make quick updates. The coding was simple enough, but I'm having a tough time deciding on the output format. Once I get the twitter-like thingy implemented, stupid tidbit entries like this will probably become a thing of the past.

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I wasn't really trying to fix anything, I was only trying to explain myself. It really did need to be said. Even if nobody was really listening, I needed to say it.

I haven't heard anything about us suddenly being at war with Ireland, so I guess the girls must be behaving themselves.

For now.

Dum-dum-DUM!!

I think I'm not going to bring it up.

It was never my idea in the first place, it was hers. I just said that it was a brilliant idea. Now, maybe it's not so brilliant, but it's not like I've got anything better to do.

So I'll just go on the assumption that tentative has become undoable. It's the safest assumption, really.

I won't mention it unless she does.

And I don't think that she will.

But, if I'm wrong, well that would be cool. And the whole idea would go back to being brilliant.

I have a problem writing about nice things. I have zero creativity when it comes to things like that. That being said, here goes.

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I've asked several people since Friday night, and nobody thinks I'm dumb at all. Most people, in fact, say that I'm quite smart. So there.

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NABC Cone Smoker is back!

Yay!

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Tuesday evening I got to have dinner with HatGirl and then go to Rich O's with her.

HatGirl!

Yay!

---

WeirdGirl told me again that she misses my tongue. That's kinda sweet of her to say that.

---

I never would have predicted it, but I totally want a baby in my life. Strange but very true.

---

Today I stayed home from work because I was feeling icky. But now I feel much better. Almost healthy, actually.

---

The things in my life that are, by far, the most wonderful and amazing and fulfilling? I still can't write about those things, but they're fucking awesome.

A couple of hours ago I got a rather unsettling email.

"Yikes!" I exclaimed.

Then I had 15 heart attacks.

Luckily for me, I thought to ask for clarification, or the heart attacks might be ongoing still.

Anyway, I'm wondering about the etymology of the word "yikes."

I know I could just look it up, but that would be hard and stuff, and the answer would probably be boring.

I'm wondering if there's such a thing as a single yike, or if it's like pants and only exists in plural form.

---

I like puns. The punnier the better.

Today I thought of a really punny pun. Now all I have to do is wait for an opportunity to spring it on some unsuspecting soul.

Do you think they have puns in other languages?

They probably have them, but I might not like them as much. All those damn foreign words sound alike anyway.

...if the Republican ticket wins in November, and we end up with millions of men spanking it whenever the new Vice-President is on TV?

I think that would be weird.

I also think Sarah Palin is hot.

VPILF?

So ArtGirl just basically accused me of having a girl in every port.

Hell, I don't even have any ports, so that shows how much she knows.

But seriously, what the fuck?

woohoo!

woohoo!

I'm pretty sure that, should my phone be somehow situated on the far side of the Moon, and myself at the bottom of some deep well or cave here on Earth, I'm pretty sure that I'd still manage to get to it before it could woohoo a third time.

So taking a nap, with my phone not even two feet from my side?

No problem at all. I could do that in my sleep. And I often do.

The strange thing is, my phone checks for new email every 20 minutes. This is hard-wired at the factory or something. I have certainly been unable to figure out how to change that setting.

So how, I wonder, how does it sometimes manage to announce a half-dozen emails in the space of 15 minutes?

It's a mystery, I tell you.

Eventually, of course, I gave up on my nap. Too many woohoos. Too many occasions to pry open my eyes and fumble a one-thumbed reply. Too many protests from my cat Nugget, wondering no doubt why he once again picked my left shoulder on which to sleep.

I'm not complaining. The emails are coming from her, after all.

But as soon as I arose from my couch, as soon as I cleared the fog from my head, the emails stopped. The woohoos stopped.

Okay, so maybe I'm complaining just a little.

I wrote in an email, earlier tonight, to a girl who's going to get a nickname before too long if she keeps being nice, I wrote that I have a zillion blog entries to write.

Perhaps that wasn't quite true.

What I have, instead, are a zillion titles, or a zillion topic sentences.

Actual full-length entries just might be beyond my capabilities right now. That's why I've been doing nothing but snippets and reposts and boring crap like that.

And this entry, I suppose, falls somewhere in the middle.

I thought of this awesome thing to write, but then I remembered that people read what I write. So, I might still write it, but not here.

---

I also thought of something awesome to say on my death bed. And of course I can't write that because I'm saving it for when I'm actually on my death bed.

Like in 500 years or so.

---

I'm counting on medical technology to irrelify all of my current stupidity.

It could happen.

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I made that word up. I like it, though.

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Did I ever mention that I like hot girls?

Well, I do.

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I still haven't had any of the 08.08.08 beer. Because I might be able to talk BadPickleGirl into trying it with me. Tonight, I had myself some yummy Moerlein OTR (216).

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Speaking of OTR, I need to remember to take a bottle to work, so that later I can drop it off for MrPopular.

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Speaking of BadPickleGirl, she just complained about getting just one MySpace message, from me, in a week. I myself usually only get messages from Jack Shit.

She got a message from me, I get messages from Jack Shit.

She wins, hands down.

---

Because, no matter what certain people might think, I'm much better than Jack Shit.

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Damn, it's only 11:04, and I'm out of material.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again.

Like right now.

The brain doesn't control the heart. Far too often, it's the other way around.

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Today I'm a little bit irritated with what I'll call foul-weather friends.

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Tomorrow is payday! Woohoo!

I think I want to get out of town again.

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Sunday I'm pretend-marrying HatGirl and LuckyFucker.

This guy at work thinks I should get myself ordained on the internet and then be really marrying them when they think I'm only pretending.

I think that would be both a very funny and a very mean thing to do.

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I'm not mean.

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I'd planned on taking lunch today, but I couldn't get away from this stupid system restore in time. Crap!

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Entries like this, composed of nothing but little snippets - they're a lot like Twitter, aren't they?

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I totally forgot, but I've got two bottles of the new Vertical Epic 08.08.08 in my fridge. I need to have one of them so I can review it.

Opening that bottle of The Reverend now.

I think I'll go ahead and write this now, Monday evening. So I can still use the present tense. Using the past tense is going to suck. There's still a chance that this entry will go to waste. I would love to waste this entry. He will think it's hilarious, that I put all this effort into fiction.

My friend WomanRepellant is in the hospital. That's why he didn't call me Saturday morning like we'd arranged. He was in the hospital then, and he's in the hospital now, And he will never leave the hospital, except in a bag.

Because, you see, he is dying.

He. Is. Dying.

Present tense. That's important.

Don't even bother asking me why he's in the hospital. I won't tell you. It's probably none of your business, and I want to respect what privacy he has left regarding all this.

I went there today, to the hospital. I wasn't going to go, but LaptopGirl talked me into it. She was right, of course, but I still shouldn't have gone. Not as far as I went. Not all the way into that room.

I stood outside that room for what seemed like hours. I could see, through the window, some old man on the bed, his face turned away from the hallway in which I stood. Unconscious, thankfully. I wish I would have been.

It wasn't until I actually steeled myself enough to go into the room, and I saw his face, it wasn't until then that I was able to recognize that the old man dying in that bed was my friend. Up until that point, I could kinda pretend to myself that it was all some horrible mistake.

Is my friend. Fuck.

And now that is going to be the last image I have of him. Not sitting at the bar at Sluttopia a couple of weeks ago, laughing about something or other. Not any of the countless times we sat together at Rich O's and made fun of weirdoes and leered at pretty girls. Nope, as my last image of my friend I get to have him on his death bed.

So, I wanted to tell a little story. The story of how he got his nickname.

See, before the nickname WomanRepellant was chosen, I'd been having a very tough time coming up with a good nickname for him. I mean, he was rapidly becoming one of my best friends, but nothing I tried seemed right for him. I tried stupid nicknames like WhiteHairDude and a few others, but none of them worked. None of them fit.

Then, one day in August 2005, I was sitting at Rich O's talking with HatGirl. I'd only known HatGirl for a couple of weeks at that time. I didn't even know she had a boyfriend. I had already developed a major crush on her, and being able to sit and talk with her that day after work was a very pleasant surprise.

I wrote this, back then.

I was really having a hard time keeping from jumping into HatGirl's eyes and swimming around, but after a while this dude showed up and sat with us and HatGirl left pretty much immediately. Just a coincidence I'm sure. Not.

He thinks it's a very funny nickname. Much better than the ones I've given other people.

Present tense.

Had a quick meal with HatGirl this evening, after I left the hospital. We talked about our friend. She remembers that day as well. Funny how that one brief moment has forever tied the three of us together.

Also on the way home I bought a bottle of Avery The Reverend. It's one of his favorite beers, and one of mine as well. I'll save it. I'll save it until the present tense is no longer appropriate and then I'll pour two glasses, and then my friend WomanRepellant and I will drink it together. And raise a few toasts to the pretty girls.

Future tense. Even better.

I imagine people coming to this blog today, the ones who know me personally, and they're asking me the unspoken question, "Dave, what are you writing about all the drama from yesterday?"

And my silent response is, "Which drama? There were two distinct instances. Doesn't matter though, because I'm not writing shit until things settle. Maybe not even then."

So there.

Anyway, I'm back home from Covington. More on that later.

One of the things I've wanted to write about here, when things got slow enough and when I didn't feel like writing anything interesting, was this:

Anyway, it's got this auto-spelling feature. What happens is that I press keys like I'm spelling something, and it guesses what I'm trying to spell.

Sometimes this works quite well, but sometimes it sucks.

My own name, for example, is spelled with the keys 4-?-7-1. But the word Dave isn't what it decides that I'm typing. Nope, in its minuscule hardwired brain, it decides that I'm typing the word face.

There are many other examples. One of which is that the keys 5-3-2-? can spell hits, guys, guts, or huts.

It always gives me a choice, but far too often I forget to look at the presented choices. I just take the default. Which is quite often wrong. Which quite often makes me look like an idiot.

But that's not even the worst thing about the auto-spelling. The worst thing is that, I know this one girl named Amanda, and when I type her name into my Blackberry, it decides that what I'm really trying to type is the word Smands.

Smands is the default choice it gives me for the keys ?-9-?-8-4-?.

How stupid is that?

Smands wouldn't even make a cute pet nickname, were I so inclined to use one.

Also, a while ago I needed to type the name Heinlein into my Blackberry.

At that point, upon getting 5-1-3-8-'-1-3-8 as input, the auto-spell circuits overheated and the entire Blackberry burst into flames.

What a piece of shit, it never even heard of Robert Heinlein.

I would climb onto her lap, and rest my head against her chest.

She would wrap her arms around me, and she would hum gentle melodies.

And she would rock me gently, and I would feel safe enough to let tears flow from me like a river.

And she would make everything all better.

It was the Summer of 2003 when I got the idea to do this blogging thing. I'd just attended my high school reunion, and I'd had such a good time that I thought I should write it down. I'd been reading about this new (to me at least) blogging craze, and I already had a website of sorts. So, I figured, Why not?

As it turned out, I never did write about that high school reunion. And I didn't start writing here until a couple of months later. I did mention that reunion once, but I think that was it.

That was the first reunion I'd gone to. I'd never lived anywhere near here when the others were going on. But for the one in 2003 I was back in Southern Indiana, so I went. It was fun, like I said.

Now, it's 2008. Five years have gone by, and so now another high school reunion is approaching. This weekend, specifically. Friday is supposed to be casual hanging out at a bar, and Saturday is more formal. Waltzes or whatever.

My own thoughts about this reunion have been thus:

I'm soooo going.

I'm soooo not going.

I'm definitely going.

What's the point? I'm not going.

Okay, maybe I'll go.

No way am I going.

And so on and so on...

I think the thing is that I don't want to go by myself. I'm sick and tired of going places and doing things by myself. But there's nobody to take with me. It's something to which you take a wife or a girlfriend, and a quick search reveals none of those around. And I don't really think it's something to which you'd take a casual date, though I did consider that for a while.

My family and my friends tell me that I should go, at least to the casual Friday night thingy.

"Maybe you'll meet somebody," they always say.

They always say that, but that's not what they mean.

What they mean is, "Maybe you'll meet somebody else."

I've done a pretty good job of biting my tongue when I've heard that. People do mean well, for the most part.

Even when they're totally wrong.

You know what I've never really understood the appeal of?

Right!

First guess, too. I'm impressed.

Anal sex is correct.

I mean, for gay guys, I don't suppose they have much choice in the matter.

But when it's a guy with a girl, there's a perfectly good vagina right there. It's only a couple of inches away, fer chissakes.

I don't get it.

I never really enjoyed it, except vicariously I suppose.

And, if it never happens again, I won't miss it.

Gasp gasp gurgle gurgle glub glub.

Sometime during the late 60s, I was a kid. I don't really know if it was the 1760s or the 1960s or the 1460s or whatever - it was a long time ago, plastic was invented. More specifically, plastic milk jugs were invented.

My parents, apparently, thought this was the greatest invention ever, beating sliced bread by a half-mile at least. Or maybe it was just my mom that loved the things. I can't really imagine that Dad cared one way or another.

Anyway, Mom, at least, loved the things. Our refrigerator was always full of them. And they, in turn, were full of various random liquids. Only one of which was ever actual milk.

I have very few really clear memories of being that young. I remember seeing my mom holding my baby sister. I remember seeing the first man walk on the Moon. I remember running through a sliding-glass door. And I also remember grabbing the wrong plastic milk jug, three times.

These occasions were all pretty much the same. I'd stumble out of bed at the crack of 10:00 AM or something like that. Dad would be at work. Mom would be at work. Since, even at that young age, I knew that starving to death would be unpleasant, I'd make myself some breakfast.

When you're six years old-ish, making breakfast really means pouring a bowl of cereal and milk.

That was always the plan, anyway.

And, usually, that's the way it worked out.

The first time that plan failed. It was a Honeycomb day. Dad must have gotten a bonus or something, because Honeycomb cereal was a very rare treat to us. I remember, several times, getting up extra early, like at 9:59, so that I could get to the Honeycomb before my sister ate it all.

Anyway, one morning I grabbed a box of Honeycomb, and I grabbed a bowl, and I grabbed a spoon, and I grabbed a plastic milk jug from the fridge. I sat at the little white table that was reserved for us kids (because we were such precious snowflakes) and I made myself some breakfast.

I don't think that my mouth was more than halfway closed on that first bite before I knew that something was terribly wrong.

Not Milk.

Orange Juice.

Let me tell you something. Orange juice is good. Honeycomb cereal is good. But the two combined?

Not so good.

That was the first time.

The second time it was generic Cheerios and tea.

The third time it was, once again, generic Cheerios. But the third time it was, instead of milk, it was chocolate milk.

And it was fucking yummy.

I want some right now.

So I've been thinking about having a midlife crisis. I suppose I'm about due, as I haven't had one since I first moved to Seattle. I tried to have one a few years ago, but it never did catch on.

That Seattle midlife crisis was fun, maybe I could have fun again.

Anyway, I remember seeing a video on the internet, a long time ago. This dude was sitting on a motorcycle in a driveway, revving it up and showing off or something, and he did something wrong and smashed into the garage door.

I think it killed him, so it probably wasn't as funny as it would have otherwise been.

I'm pretty sure that, should my new midlife crisis hold a psychological gun to my head and force me to buy a motorcycle, I'm pretty sure that I'd at least do better than that guy did. I don't think I'd crash into my garage door. Nope, I've always pictured myself as being one of those guys who'd run over an acorn or something and that would cause me to wipe out and kill myself.

I'd probably be better off with a Corvette. I think a Corvette would be pretty much acorn-proof. Unless there was a whole shitload of them. Part of some vast conspiracy, perhaps.

Plus, I think chicks dig Corvettes even more than motorcycles.

(Update: I've been informed that motorcycles are more attractive, in general. But I think I'll stick with my opinion, because I believe that the attractiveness of being a living person vs. being a corpse would far outweigh that of having two wheels vs. four.)

The thing is, I don't. Not any more. Not for a long time now.

My reasons were, and are, myriad.

Mostly, I just knew that it was wrong. I knew it was a lie. I knew it was a betrayal. I knew it was a waste of time.

So, I stopped. A long time ago.

I get nervous, sometimes. Like right now. And last week. And last month. And for the last year or so.

I really and truly thought that everything was out in the open. I really and truly thought that the truth was the one thing I didn't need to worry about.

Well, apparently, I was wrong.

---

I don't know if I'm ever going to get around to finishing my Atlanta entries. I must have 2,000 words worth of notes, but I have zero motivation to edit those notes into anything reasonable. I drank beer. I lamented the severe shortage of LaptopGirls and HatGirls in Atlanta. There was never a drop of hot water in my hotel room. I was pretty much miserable the entire time.

---

Then, MixedSignalGirl got married in Jeffersonville, while I sat in the Atlanta airport. I should have been there for her happy day. I should have been there for her. I should have been there for myself. But, I wasn't there. And it was only a coincidence that allowed me to use "but I'm in Atlanta" as an excuse.

---

I really thought I'd have more crap to write tonight. Maybe later.

I think that I'm getting sick of being a grouch. I think that I want to be in a good mood again.

So, I think that's what I'll do.

Yep, that's definitely what I'll do.

Well, fuck.

UPDATE: Never mind.

I think it's cute that she falls asleep.

Tomorrow, I have to go to Atlanta.

I don't want to go.

They're making me.

Also, HatGirl is lucky.

Of all of the mysteries that have plagued mankind since the beginning of time, there's never been one as vexing as this:

How much money will a Rich O's growler hold, when filled to the top with random coins?

One hundred ninety-six dollars and seventy-four cents, that's how much.

Next up, I'll cure cancer.

Heh.

The subject of this entry is funny to me. I don't know why.

---

Monday was, by any definition you want to use, a wasted day.

I mean, I couldn't even make myself sad when I wanted. And that used to be my faithful standby mood. Today, I didn't even have that to fall back upon. I remained numb all day long.

---

I figure that 99% of my brain has, rather suddenly over the past few days, been left with nothing to do. That's a pretty big chunk. I find myself worrying and/or wondering what's going to happen, now that I've got all this extra processing power.

Something bad, that's my guess.

---

A cornered animal will always fight back. Though it may be terrified, and though it may be doomed, a cornered animal will always go out with a fight.

Snapping teeth and slashing claws. Squeaks turned into roars by desperation.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm being cornered. With nothing left to lose.

I don't like this feeling, and I wish it would go away. It's not appropriate. I have plenty left to lose.

---

Did I ever mention that I'd like to win the lottery and retire?

Well, I would like to do those things.

Trust is one of those oddball things. It has to be earned, but simply earning it doesn't always garner it. Nope, it also has to be given. And there are no rules about trusting someone. It's all so subjective.

---

This thing that I just tried, and failed, to write about? Now I'm having fourth thoughts about it, and I'm thinking that maybe I should try again. Because it really is quite cool.

---

I think it's my fault that it keeps storming here. Every single time I hang my sleeping bag on my deck railing to dry, another storm comes along and blows it off the railing.

---

Tonight at Red Lobster there was the cutest little pair of twin two-month-old babies. Everyone wanted to just gobble them up. But nobody did, probably because they were saving room for the regular menu items.

Also, the twins' parents didn't look like they were having any fun at all. I guess that's what two months without any sleep will do to you.

---

I've been on-call all week, but tomorrow at 7:00 my week of torture ends. So, yay!

---

I've always been the first to admit that I don't know what the fuck is going on. And now I'll admit it again.

I don't know what the fuck is going on.

---

I'm sitting here checking my email every couple of minutes, but all I'm getting is dick SPAM. I get a lot of that.

---

I guess I'll go out to my swing for a while now.

What's always funny is how it just ends.

No sign off. No fade to black. No national anthem. No hint at all.

There's something, and something, and something and then, click!, there's nothing.

And, of course, when I say funny I really mean almost unbearably stress-inducing.

Seriously, would a simple good night be so terrible?

So Rich O's is going to be closed next weekend. All weekend. I could say something about what I think of that, but I kinda want to go in there again someday, so I'll hold my tongue.

---

This Friday I'm going to this dealie at our local Caesar's casino. I'm looking forward to it except for the tiny little thing that I'm on-call this week, and there's never been much cellphone reception at Caesar's. So there's a chance that all hell could break loose at work and I won't know anything about it until I return to civilization.

---

I really want to go somewhere next weekend. And now that Rich O's is going to be closed I really really want to go somewhere. But, who am I kidding? I'm not leaving the area, not even for a weekend.

---

I recently expanded my cable TV lineup. So now, if I wanted to, I could become a baseball fan again. The only restriction would be that I'd have to be a Reds fan. And I'm not sure that they're worthy of the time and effort I'd have to put in to really follow and root for them.

When I was in Seattle, being a Mariner's fan was both fun and validating, most of the time. But still, it's hard to be a baseball fan if you really want to follow the team. There are so many games. I dunno if I'm up for that kind of commitment.

---

My answer was no, of course. What a stupid question.

---

It's AlliDay today!

Yay!

---

Then Sunday morning I have some work stuff to do. It will probably be fun, unless it doesn't go smoothly. Then it will suck, but that's what I get paid for, I suppose.

---

I think that's it.

---

I know I'm forgetting something.

Yes
Of course I will. Damn, it's been so long, I'm already trembling with the anticipation of getting to see you. And, not only seeing you, but seeing you happy. Because that's what's important - that you're happy. Of course I'll come.

And I will gladly shake the hand of the man who's done what I couldn't do.

No
What a stupid question. How could you even suspect that I'd agree to that? Have you ever even met me? What's the climate like on your planet, anyway?

I'll tell you what - I'll agree to see you and your dipshit boyfriend as soon as you agree that I can bring along the person you hate more than anyone.

Yeah, I didn't fucking think so.

Have a nice life, and I mean that seriously. But I'll be over here, trying to live my own life.

Maybe
I need to think about it for a couple of days. It's tempting, but it's more than a little scary. I really do want to see you, but I wonder if I also need to see you.

If the latter, then it's just too risky for me. I've got enough needs in my life right now.

It's been a long time, but has it been long enough? I need to think about this some more. I'll let you know.

1. They did it already.

2. It's called Sideways.

3. But it could still be good.

4. I want Cusack to play me.

5. Or Jason Alexander.

6. Really, I want a cross between the two of them.

7. Not particularly attractive, but cool, you know?

8. I'd like a cameo, please.

9. Don't tell me the ending.

10. I want to be surprised.

I've been spending some time reading through some of my old blog entries. I do this sometimes. One of my random quote thingies will catch my eye and I'll go read the original entry. Then I'll start reading all the subsequent entries for a while.

Like, I just read the stuff from December 2006.

I was in a weird mood for almost that entire month.

I think that the last entry of the month was also my favorite.

I guess I've been fooling myself, pretending with so much effort that there for a little while I actually believed it. I actually believed that it might be different this time.

But the hour looms nearer. The alcohol in my body fogs my senses even as it magically makes things more clear. I can see the truth. I know what's about to happen.

The same thing that happened on the past two occurrences of this date.

This little annual ceremony of mine has been polluted and corrupted. It's not even close to what it once was. It used to be something I'd look forward to. Ring out the old, usher in the new. Crap like that. It was kind of fun.

And now, now it's nothing more than a séance. Intensified, surely, because of the date, but otherwise no different than any of the dozens that preceded it this year.

In less than an hour, it begins again.

I'll extend this invitation to the rest of you. Even though I don't know you, and you could all be perverts, I'll ask you anyway.

I've got a new computer with a new webcam and new chat software.

I want to see if I've got all this stuff set up correctly so I can do a video chat.

I've asked several people, and all have declined. I think it's because they're all afraid that I'm going to whip my dick out or something.

Well, I've already done enough damage to the internet, when I uttered the word fuck in all its cursed glory.

I have no desire to sully the internet any more by introducing nudity to its pristine purity.

So, I promise, there will be no whipping-out of my wee-wee. I just want to see if I can video chat.

Can somebody help?

Today I had an idea to start something the likes of which I haven't done in a while. A series of flash-fiction entries, similar to the old peril series from 2005.

This is as far as I got.

Twirling and dancing as thin ice groans and cracks under his feet. Not oblivious to the dangers, but spiteful of them.

(There was this survey thingy that my sister posted. I started to repost it with my own answers, but then I decided to just use the survey's questions to maybe give me something to write about. So that's what I'm doing. Maybe one interesting survey question a day - that should keep me writing for quite a while. And I won't have to do that annoying thing where I think up my own topics. Unless I want to.)

Are you friends with any of your exes?
I suppose it depends on how you define friends and also on how you define exes.

I'm on friendly terms with all of my ex-girlfriends, I think. But it's not like we're still friends as I understand the term. I mean, it's not like we're always calling each other up and hanging out all the time. This is partly because most of them don't live anywhere near here, but I think that's only part of the reason. Things change, and people drift apart. It sucks, but it happens.

I'm pretty sure that, if I wanted to, I could call up most of my ex-girlfriends, and have a nice talk or whatever. I Iike to think that those relationships all ended on good terms. But the fact is that I don't contact them, and the other fact is that they don't contact me. That's gotta mean something, right there.

What's happened lately, more often, is that relationships deteriorate into purely sexual ones. I don't like it very much when that happens. I like to think I'm good for more than that, and I know that these girls are good for much more than that.

One day last week I was emailing HatGirl back and forth about wine and such. I'm buying the wine for her wedding reception. Because I'm a nice guy, at least when people are deserving of my niceness, which is rare these days, but HatGirl is special.

Anyway, HatGirl said something or other about how to thank me for the wine. My thought was, It's her flipping wedding. I get to see her at her absolute happiest. That's thanks enough for a lifetime.

So I told her as much. But I also told her that, "Actually, you can thank me by letting me dance with the bride at the reception."

Pretty much the greatest idea in history, right?

That's what I thought.

In fact, there are only two things wrong with the idea.

My two left feet.

I can't dance. Not at all, and certainly not the type of dancing I expect to see at wedding receptions.

I guess I picture LuckyFucker and HatGirl dancing for a bit, then probably HatGirl's dad cuts in, then maybe I cut in. And it's that semi-formal kind of dancing that you see in the movies. My right hand on HatGirl's waist, my left hand in her right hand. And we do something with our feet, though I haven't a clue as to what that might me. Move them, maybe? Take some steps, perhaps? And I think there's this thing called "rhythm" that we're supposed to pay attention to.

So I've been asking around. Surely I must know some girl who (a) can dance and (b) is willing to teach me.

Nope.

As of this writing, zero girls will admit to knowing how to dance this kind of dance. Only FirstGirl would admit to any dancing talent at all, and she seemed much more interested in teaching me to Tango or Cha-Cha.

I guess I've still got some time. Maybe I can take some professional lessons. Or find me some gay guy to teach me. I think they're all born with the ability or something.

I guess the only thing I know for sure is that nobody should expect to see me cutting any rugs or getting jiggy with anything. I'm pretty sure those things are beyond my abilities, and I know for an absolute fact that I wouldn't be doing that kind of dancing anyway. There's not that much alcohol on Earth. You may as well expect me to sing karaoke.

I just wanted to say that my cat Nugget is psychic.

He sensed that my mood was becoming unsteady, and he jumped into my lap and started licking my arm.

Now, if I can only get him to use his psychic powers to tell me the next winning lottery numbers...

My email is messed-up tonight. Sometimes I can send, but not usually. I haven't been able to recieve since about 7:00.

I feel like a caveman must have felt.

I need a new phrase. One besides, "This is huge!"

I know RockGirl has to be getting sick of me saying that over and over and over and over and over.

Nothing's great or cool or even fantastic anymore. It's all huge.

Like this thing that happened the other night. Or this other thing that happened three times tonight.

Fucking huge.

---

I think that one of my neighbors might be a dick. Not the one directly across the street; she's nice, and she has a hot daughter who sometimes comes over and mows her mom's yard in a bikini. And not the people who live behind me. They seem pretty cool, and they keep to themselves, the way I like it.

The neighbor who might be a dick is the one across the street and one house over.

He had a fucking streetlight put in his driveway.

The light pollution from that thing is ridiculous. Especially at times like tonight, when it's warm but the leaves aren't on the trees yet. I sit on my swing, trying to enjoy the darkness, and that damn light is all I can see.

I'd like to take a pellet gun and shoot the thing out. But I can't because I'd be the prime suspect, now that I've written about it.

---

I owe NotHideousGirl an apology. I will apologize to her in person the next time I see her but, for now, I will apologize here:

Sorry about that. It was only ever barely funny to begin with, and it's certainly not funny anymore. Plus, it sends the absolute wrong message. I will make every effort to never broach the subject again, except when I apologize to you in person, the next time I see you.

---

This weekend SassyGirl is coming to town!

Yay!

As always happens, though, I'm on-call this week. So my weekend could get ruined if some bad enough stuff happens at work. I certainly hope not.

---

I don't know what I'm going to do Saturday night. Rich O's will be closed because of this airshow and fireworks thingy in Louisville. They were open last year for Thunder Over Louisville, so I don't see why they have to close this year. To piss me off, I guess.

---

Huge, I tell you!

---

I wish I'd have let that guy in the Peril series of entries live. I just know I could write a lot of good stuff about what's been happening with that guy for the past year. But how was I supposed to know, back then, that things would turn around this drastically?

---

I'd thought that I might get to go to Las Vegas in May, but now that's doubtful. There were three of us going, and I guess now only one of us gets to go. I hope it's me, but I don't want to get my hopes up too high. Plus, it would feel weird to leave here when such huge fantastic things are happening.

---

People probably don't notice it, but I really am a totally different person now. Here's one example:

Before, my reluctance was selfish, but now it's pretty goddamn noble of me, I think. Me, noble. Who saw that coming?

---

Man, I really want to write something relevant. But, every time I start, I end up stopping myself. Because people might go, Oh shit, Dave's off his rocker again.

The thing is, I never got back on the damn rocker. Everything is as it's been for years, except that now I'm getting a little bit of validation. Not encouragement, I cannot stress that enough. Just simple validation that maybe I wasn't quite as crazy as everyone thought. As even I thought.

There. That's about as relevant as I can allow myself to get.

---

Fucking huge!

So today, instead of flinging myself off the top of the nearest tall building, I figured that I'd try HatGirl one more time. I was really starting to freak out, and I sent her a message telling her as much.

She responded!

Yay!

We traded a couple of emails. I guess most notable was that she looked at my entry from Monday and called the resemblance "scary."

She did not offer an opinion as to whether her ass is better than the one in the poster.

---

On another front, I keep saying that the tiniest little things can mean all the difference to me. Tonight someone declined an invitation I'd made. But it was still very cool, because I was expecting no answer at all. Even the tiny little act of turning down my invitation will end up being one of the high points of my week.

---

I think I'm going to try to take a day of vacation Friday. I've still got a lot of hours that I need to use or lose by the end of April. I'll most likely have to work several hours on Friday but, as I said last week, I can work from home and I won't have to put on clothes. Plus, having Friday off means that I can go to Rich O's Thursday night.

---

Saturday I go booze shopping. I'm trying to put together a list of stuff to buy, so if you know me you can send me an email and I'll add your choice to my list.

---

Tonight I watched this stupid I Am Legend movie. I also had most of a bottle of Left Hand Snow Bound (112). I say most of a bottle because I managed to backhand the glass onto the floor at one point. Oops.

---

I think that's it for now.

---

Oh, wait. LaptopGirl told me that I'd be sad when I found out who got eliminated from American Idol tonight. She probably thinks that I'd be sad if Ramiele was voted off, so that's going to be my guess.

I have now been told, by three different people, that the girl in this beer poster at Rich O's looks uncannily like Hatgirl.

I can no longer ignore these observations. So I figured I'd post this entry and let those readers who know HatGirl decide for themselves.

Above is the full poster. I will admit a slight resemblance if I ignore the fact that HatGirl no longer wears glasses and her hair is now much shorter than that.

Here's a close-up of the facial area of the poster:

Okay, it does seem to look like HatGirl. Except HatGirl's horns are not nearly so pronounced. This chick certainly has that hot librarian look that HatGirl is so famous for.

Here's a close-up of the assial area of the poster:

I, of course, would never ever look as HatGirl's ass. She's much too pure and sweet for me to sully her in that way. But, if I were to look at her ass, I'm pretty sure that (a) it would be even nicer than what is portrayed here, and (b) there would be no tail.

Anyway, NABC's artist Tony Beard does a heck of a job, doesn't he?

I spend a lot of my spare time, such as this time right now while I wait for the dryer to ding, playing this Euchre game on my computer.

I'm not going to try to explain what Euchre is except to say that it's a card game. If you already know the game, then no explanation is necessary. If you don't already know what it is, and I try to explain it, you're inevitably going to exclaim, "Oh! It's like Spades!"

And then I'll have to kill you.

It's not like fucking Spades.

Anyway, I play this Euchre game a lot. Me and a computerized version of my cat Happy partnered against computerized versions of my cats Buddy and Nugget.

Shut up, I am so not gay.

I must have played this game a million times. Way more than I've played it with actual humans. This might be a good thing.

See, Happy keeps pissing me off. He's constantly leading trump on defense. I think this strategy scored a point once, back in 2001 or 2002, but it had never worked before and it hasn't worked since. I'm constantly cussing out my computerized partner for this folly, but he won't listen. Because he isn't real.

I'm pretty sure that, if I ever have an actual human partner, and he or she leads trump on defense, I'll just have to kill him or her.

Okay, so I was just stung by a wasp. Right on my neck.

What's that vital artery in the neck called? The Get Stung Here And Die Artery, maybe? That's where I just got stung.

So, just in case I drop dead in the next few minutes - I love you all.

Except those of you whom I hate - You suck.

UPDATE 7:35 AM - I will apparently live.

This is not an entry with humor about assholes. If you came here excitedly expecting to read poop and fart jokes, I'm sorry.

One of the big conversation topics at Rich O's lately, for most of the area bars in fact, has been that the local New Albany High School basketball team was (a) undefeated, (b) ranked number one in the state, and (c) quite possibly the greatest basketball team in the history of the entire universe.

I pretty much stayed out of those conversations because (a) I went to a rival high school, and (b) I didn't care, and (c) basketball sucks.

Anyway, Saturday night PearlGirl came in and joined us in the red room for a bit. She very quickly informed us that New Albany had lost it's playoff game, and that they were therefore eliminated.

I said, "They lost? Well maybe people can shut up about them now."

Undeterred, PearlGirl then started talking about the game itself. "It was a really good game!" she offered.

"Or maybe not," I remarked.

Now, a couple of people chuckled at my remark. And I began to wonder why. I mean, did they understand and agree with my sense of humor, or did they completely misinterpret my words, and still find them chuckle-worthy?

There are two ways to interpret what I'd said:

1. I was suggesting that it must not have been that good of a game, because New Albany lost.

2. I was postulating that perhaps people wouldn't be able to shut up after all.

For the people who know me well enough, it's trivial to know that the second interpretation is the correct one.

This is asshole humor. It is my forte.

I wonder how many people understood that, and how many people thought I was actually being sympathetic to the losing team and its fans.

A week or so ago, I ran across this article. I've seen similar articles before. It seems like they pop up every year as St. Patrick's Day nears.

Then today I saw this article. This is just another rehash of the standard pets reduce stress story that news organizations use when Britney hasn't done anything crazy lately.

Anyway, for those keeping score at home, (a) I enjoy an occasional alcoholic beverage, and (b) I own not just one, but three cats.

I am, therefore, invincible and I will live forever.

When I see your great-great-great-great-grandchildren, I'll tell then you said, "Hi."

I was talking with my sister yesterday. She told me about how she'd been sitting out on her deck Friday night, trying to enjoy the snowfall, but it had become too cold and windy for her comfort.

So, she ran back inside her house.

I guess she ran quickly. Furthermore, I guess she ran too quickly.

Because she startled one of her cats.

The cat hauled ass out of the room to hide, but not until it had deposited two turds onto Dina's kitchen floor.

I think that cat was pretty smart. I think it deliberately shit on Dina's floor to provide a distraction while it made its escape.

I like that idea. I like that idea so much, I'm going to steal it.

In the unlikely event that my ex-wife ever sets foot into Rich O's, I'm not just going to haul ass out the back door. Nope, I'm going to drop my pants and shit on the floor first. That little distraction should buy me enough time to get away.

This plan should also work for other unwelcome intruders; my ex-wife is just the first one who came to mind.

Okay, I hardly ever bother to do this. Link to things I find on the internet, I mean. Because that would mean less attention would be paid to me. But in this case I can't help myself, because it's funny.

Below are two of my favorites. There are many more at Instructions for looking after baby.

...you can find stuff like this.

As it turns out, I have spies everywhere. And I didn't even know that I had them. I thought all I had was people spying on me. Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean I'm wrong about that.

Things aren't as bad as they've seemed. They're still not good. They still suck, actually.

But, thanks to my spies, I feel better about something that's been kind of nagging at me for several months. Not a big problem in the grand scheme of things, but enough to distract me from what's really relevant.

And, speaking of what's really relevant. I feel a little tiny bit better about that, too. Thanks to another spy. I still don't really know what's happened, but I now know that it wasn't this one stupid thing which I'd never even seriously considered except during my darkest moments. So, that's cool. One less thing to worry about.

Anyway, spies are cool. I highly recommend them.

There's this thing that I'm not supposed to write about.

Not that one thing about which I keep writing, even though I'm not supposed to. A completely different thing. One which I've been able to more or less successfully steer clear of for years, except for a couple of minor, trivial, and harmless entries.

I fear all that may change, and that it may change soon.

I really hope it doesn't come to that. I'm really too old for that kind of shit.

I suppose I feel better now. I think that the only real casualty was my myspace account. It can't be retrieved, and I'm pretty sure that I don't care. It was pretty much irrelevant anyway. I did managed to save the facebook stuff, though time will soon tell if that was a wasted effort or not.

I don't think I'm going to write much about what happened. Something certainly did and, to deal with it, I needed to reset some things inside my head. Dial back some knobs, stuff like that. I've tried to find out what caused it, and I did manage to learn a couple of things. Bullshit things. I tried to do some damage control on that. I don't know if it worked or not, but at least I tried.

This morning, just now actually, I was reminded of something that bugs me.

Let's say I write this in my blog:

It was freakin' cold this morning. Nine whole degrees when I woke up at the crack of 10:00. And yes, I know it's a lot colder than that in other places.

I'm annoyed by this use of the "and yes" segue. It just rubs me the wrong way. It patronizingly presumes that the writer knows what the reader is thinking, then it casually dismisses the reader's thought. It's a little argumentative, yet the reader never gets his say. The reader loses an argument that he was never really in to begin with.

Another annoying use of the same segue is here, paraphrased from Slashdot:

It seems that the New Year's Eve fireworks show in Seattle had to be fired manually, because the software that was supposed to run things crashed. And yes, that software runs on Windows.

Anyway, that's my little rant for now. And yes, I know this was a silly entry.

1. Trevor
2. Cocksucker
3. Cumguzzler
4. Hogarth
5. Blaine
6. Buttpirate
7. Lance
8. Anything with an apostrophe in it - i.e. J'on
9. Anything intentionally misspelled - i.e. Travys
10. Englebert

Keep this handy guide with you at all times.

Last night I whipped this together and sent it to a few people. I mainly made it for RockGirl. She was looking for ideas on what to send her boyfriend.

RockGirl decoded it in about two seconds. HatGirl came very close right away, but may have given up. LaptopGirl is probably forwarding it to her attorney. WeirdGirl cheated, but she said it was only to check her answer.

I could have picked another image altogether for the third image. I don't know why I didn't.

Happy birthday to HatGirl!

Yay for HatGirl!

I got this nifty voice recorder doohickey for Christmas. Tonight, I recorded myself singing happy birthday to HatGirl. I was thinking about posting the audio file here. But I realized that the risk that my singing might melt the hearts of women all over the world - it's just wasn't worth it.

Besides, HatGirl already got to hear me sing it in person.

The Internet is now complete.

I think we should all shut down our sites and our journals now, lest anyone ever be tempted to use the Internet for a lesser purpose.

This will be close, but it probably won't be exact. It's been a couple of weeks since this one dude told this to me. I'd say exactly who it was that told me about this, but his mother or grandmother might read this blog, and I don't want to get anyone into trouble. Even though he could say he was tricked into watching it.

Anyway, according to my friend, there was this video. On the Internet, I think. I hope. I'd hate to think that this was in someone's private stash.

At the start, there were two naked girls kissing each other.

I immediately thought to ask the obvious question - Were the girls hot? - but as my friend continued to tell me about the video, the issue of the girls hotness became irrelevant very quickly.

Apparently, these girls moved directly from kissing each other to shitting on each other. I know, not exactly a normal progression, right?

But that's not all.

Then, I guess, the girls began to eat each other's shit.

But that's not all.

Next, I heard, one of the girls proceeded to vomit shit onto the other girl's face.

But that's not all.

At that point, I gather, both girls then started licking the shit/vomit mixture off of each other's faces.

At that point, I asked what had become the new obvious question.

Was one of the girls Cartman's mom?

I know why my friend told me about this video. It wasn't because he thought I might get turned on. Nope, it was because his head was totally full of disgust, and so he hoped to give some of that disgust to me. But it was just disgust, not shit, so it was okay.

I can't help but wonder about the girls in the video. About (a) why they'd do such strange things, and (b) why they'd have it taped and put on the Internet.

I can think of two reasons.

First, maybe there really are people who are into this sort of disgusting stuff. Maybe these girls are two of those people. Maybe it was all done in the spirit of some bizarre kink.

Second, maybe they just did it for the notoriety and/or some monetary gain.

I really hope that it's the former, because the thought of people doing that to each other and not even getting to enjoy it - well that would just be sad.

And I don't like sad things.

I'm feeling much better, thanks for wondering. It's always like this with me. I get all worked up over something and then, well I suppose I get it out of my system. Or maybe I just get used to it.

I guess I'll just go back to what I've always done. I'll wait. I'm good at waiting, and I'm pretty sure that my wait won't be in vain. Eventually, something good will happen.

---

A guy at work shot himself this morning. It's in the paper, so I guess I'm allowed to mention it here. I didn't know the guy. I just knew who he was. I imagine that a lot of people would say exactly the same thing. Maybe that was part of his problem.

I fully support a person's right to end their own life. To choose when their life will end. We get so few real choices as it is. But I don't support shooting yourself at work, where someone will have to find your body, and where someone will have to clean up the mess, and where someone will be traumatized. It would be much better, I think, to just disappear and never come back.

---

The other day I had this totally brilliant idea for an entry. For an article, actually. If I ever get around to writing the thing, and if I do as good of a job with it as I'd like, it may end up being my main contribution to mankind. That would be cool.

---

It's hard to stop counting days. I count the days until something good, or I count the days after something good. Because, right now, I have nothing specific to look forward to, I'm mostly counting the latter. Then, when that number gets high enough, I get to freak out a little. So maybe I do have something to look forward to.

---

Yesterday it took, I shit you not, an hour and a half for my pizza to arrive. And then, when I finally got it, it was ice cold. So much for enjoying Pizza Night.

So today I went back to Rich O's after work for another attempt. Rogue Chocolate Stout is back on tap finally, so I had one of those (2196). Right before I finished that glass, I got a little reckless.

Dave's Smoked Chocolate

(mixture) I mixed Rogue Chocolate Stout and NABC Cone Smoker in a 1:1 ratio. I'd been expecting these two very different flavors to elevate each other to new heights. But that's not what happened. They pretty much cancelled each other out. Good thing I didn't waste too much beer with this experiment.

Today's pizza arrived in about ten minutes, and it was yummy.

---

One of the things that keeps tempting me is the fact that, with about fifteen minutes, I could end all of this confusion. I could correct all of these misinterpretations. I could answer all questions. Now, knowing myself as I do, I realize that I'd try to stretch that fifteen minutes out to like a thousand years, but I think fifteen minutes is all I'd really need.

---

I just thought of something else, but it's worth an entry all on its own.

My Blackberry sucks.

Something has happened to its ability to save SMS messages.

Like tonight. Right before I left Rich O's, I drunk-texted NotHideousGirl. The gist of the message was that it sucked that there's nobody who'll miss me when I'm in Las Vegas this week.

Lo and behold, she responded. Something about how she missed me.

I replied back with some crap.

But now, when I go to look at my Blackberry to see what she said, and to see what I said in response - there's no record of any messages at all.

My Blackberry sucks.

Got this in an email tonight:

They really need to be more specific about stuff like this. I mean, I can immediately think of two MySpace friends with upcoming birthdays, but there may be more. Then there are at least a dozen people overall who are/have been very important to me - all with birthdays coming up within the next week. This particular week in November has always been a magic and/or cursed week for me.

Kinda makes me believe in astrology, sometimes.

Somebody help me out with my math here.

If the last three work weeks, consisting of 5 days each, seemed to last 13 days, 146 days, and 4.6 years respectively, then how long will this work week seem to last, given that it will only consist of two actual days?

On a slightly related note, should I strive to enjoy myself in Las Vegas next week, inevitably shortening the perceived duration of the trip, or should I wallow in misery in hopes of making the trip seem to last longer than it really does?

Well, I guess I'm not going to do the novel thing this year.

There are several reasons. I wrote most of them in an email the other day, in part saying...

I think that, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the nanowrimo thing just wasn't for me. Not this year at least. I don't want to do anything half-assed, and that's pretty much what they tell you to do, with that whole Quantity Over Quality thing. It just rubs me the wrong way. Plus, there are some weirdoes in the group.

I just don't have the time. Not this month. I've got this Las Vegas trip staring me in the face, and all I can think about is that I'd have to write my entire 50,000-word novel by the 24th instead of by the 30th.

I still really like parts of the idea though. So I might just try to write myself a 50,000-word novel. It won't be done in a month, though. More like several months or even a year.

It seems like it might be fun, as long as a deadline isn't constantly bearing down on me.

I can't think of anything lengthy to write, so I guess I'll just list more random crap.

---

I go to Las Vegas two weeks from today. I'm practically dreading the trip, but I'm hopeful that this attitude will reverse itself - probably when I'm about to land and I can see The Strip out the plane's window.

---

Several week ago, RockGirl told me something that I didn't want to believe. I knew that she was telling me the truth, but I fought that truth for a long time. Now, that truth has come to pass, and I'm much happier for it.

---

I had a weird dream last night. I don't remember very much about it, but my friend Eric's wife Teri was in it, and she was some kind of secret agent on a mission to kill me. Luckily for me, she was pretty bad at her job, and we all had a good laugh about it later.

---

Yesterday I went to my nephew's grave for the first time since the funeral. They finally got his headstone delivered. It's very nice, for a headstone. I took a picture of it, but I'm not sure that it would be appropriate for this venue. What with it being depressing and all that. I much prefer, as everyone knows, to write entries about good stuff like boxes full of cute kittens.

---

Dina has redone Cory's room into a sort of sitting room. It's very relaxing, and quite a contrast from the teenaged boy's chaotic room it used to be. The walls are now painted a color that I can only describe as school bus yellow. I'd been led to believe that setting foot in that room would cause immediate blindness and/or skin cancer, but it's not bad at all. It really looks nice in there.

---

I've been talking to FirstGirl about maybe making a necklace or a pendant out of my rock. The whole thing was my idea, but it still makes me very nervous. I'm not sure that I'm a necklace kind of guy. I also don't want to do anything to damage my rock, so no drilling.

---

You know what's weird? The only dirty clothes in my house are the maroon scrubs I'm wearing right now. Last week, I did a million loads of laundry, and I've been keeping up with it ever since. Very strange, and my cats are beside themselves without the normally ubiquitous piles of clothes upon which to nap.

---

The other night NormalGirl and I were talking about some of the places I've lived. That discussion got Seattle stuck in my mind, and now I really want to go back there for a visit. Even though it's a long way away, I think I'll put it on my short list for next Spring's Easter trip. I'll have to stop smoking first though. I think that the new law in Washington allows people to shoot smokers on sight.

---

I'm pretty sure that I just did something stupid. I meant well, though.

---

I've been very tempted to delete my MySpace account. It no longer serves any purpose for me. I'll probably end up leaving it there, but ignoring it. We'll see, I guess.

---

I've noticed lately that a couple of my friends are very bad influences on me. Just to be clear, I blame myself for any and all personality defects that arise when I'm around these people. I somehow remain hopeful that I will eventually learn to spot, and stop, these defects before they ruin any more nights for me.

---

Hey, it's 11:11 on 11/11 now. I think I'll stop writing for a while.

That show Extreme Makeover: Home Edition is in Louisville makeovering a home.

Yeah, I know that's not a real word.

It's been all over the radio, how they're redoing a house for some semi-famous blind guy. Plus I guess they're all staying at this fancy hotel across the street from where I work. At least there's been a very large bus parked there all week, and everyone is saying it's the people from the show.

I used to watch that show. I used to like it. I mean, the things that they do to transform those houses are truly amazing. But I haven't watched it in a couple of years. It just got to be too much, with all the heartwarming and the tears and the uplifting moments.

It used to be that they'd swoop in and fix up a house for any of a number of reasons. Maybe because you were cool, or you needed more space, or maybe just because you applied for the thing. And, of course, there were the charity cases. People in real trouble, who needed real help.

But things changed. I guess the heartwarming stories rapidly became the most popular ones. And the more desperate the lives of the people being helped, the better the ratings were. So it kinda snowballed.

It used to be, back when I first started watching that show, it used to be that I could almost imagine them showing up at my house someday. I liked the semi-randomness. For me, that was a really big part of the show's appeal.

Now, though, they don't do that semi-random stuff anymore. If they show up at your house now, then you know that your life truly sucks big ones.

Like, we had a storm here in August, and one of my Tivos broke. I seriously doubt that the people from the show are going to give my house a makeover because of my broken Tivo. But, back when the show first came on, it was fun to fantasize about it. Now, it would be a horrible fantasy. Because first I'd have to imagine that half my family was dead. And the other half had cancer. And the other half was blind or otherwise disabled. And that my cats all hated me. And that, despite all the problems, I still spent all of my spare time and all of my spare money helping those even less fortunate than I was.

It used to be fun to fantasize about that show redoing my house. But now, I wouldn't wish that fate on my worst enemy. Nobody deserves to have a life that's so crappy as to lure that show in.

A little while ago I got an email from RockGirl. Earlier today, we'd been discussing various meal choices, in particular my own preference for eating a lot of a single thing instead of a small amount of several things.

RockGirl asked me what I'd serve if a hot girl (she specified a certain one, but it's not important for this exercise) came over to my house for lunch.

It took me about a half a second to come up with an answer.

Homemade chocolate pudding. Then I'd say that I had no clean bowls or plates or spoons, and so we'd have to just lick it off each other's bodies.

I'd probably get away with it, too. Because in this fantasy universe of yours, wherein a hot girl comes to my house for lunch, anything at all is possible.

Maybe I'll sue myself later. I'd probably settle out of court, though. I wouldn't want to give myself too much hassle.

I'm dewrinkling some clothes now, so I have a little bit of time to kill. This one stupid shirt probably won't get dewrinkled, and I'll have to iron it. I hate it when that happens.

Yesterday I had a dentist appointment. It was routine, except for the girl who did most of the work. She was far from routine. She was gorgeous. Way too pretty to be working in a dentist's office. I mean, I generally like for any girls sticking their fingers in my mouth to be of reasonable appearance. I wouldn't want some old hag doing it, neither would I want a super-model doing it. At least not in that context, super-models should all feel free to stick fingers in my mouth at other times. And this chick was as pretty as any super-model I've ever seen. Especially when she had her cute little mask on, and all I could see were her incredible eyes.

So I spent all of my time in that chair thinking about baseball, so I wouldn't spring an erection and distract the poor girl as she worked inside my mouth with sharp metal utensils.

The greatest moment that I ever personally witnessed in baseball was several years ago. The Mariners were playing the Indians, and Kenny Lofton had spent about a week calling Randy Johnson a headhunter. When the game started, Lofton was the lead-off batter, and for the first pitch Randy threw a fastball straight at Kenny's head.

A big to-do ensued. There was no fight, but there was a lot of arguing. The umpire gave Randy a warning not to do that again, ever, young man.

Things settled back down, and the game resumed. For the second pitch of the game, Randy threw another fastball straight at Lofton's head, then he walked off the field. Classic.

Anyway.

Last night I went to Rich O's. I hadn't been planning to go, but LaptopGirl wanted me to take a look at her computer. That's not a euphemism. Her computer has been acting up.

So I had a nice pleasant evening talking with LaptopGirl. It didn't seem as surreal as it has lately, so I guess maybe I'm getting used to this new reality. I hope so.

Her computer is running Vista, and it's got some crap wrong with it. I managed to correct one glaring problem, but the rest will have to wait until we can scan the thing for spyware. I'm fairly convinced that's what's causing most of her computer woes. Also, the damn thing bluescreened on us three or four times. I didn't think Vista was ever supposed to bluescreen, and I'd definitely thought that Microsoft would have done away with that particular anachronism by now.

Like I said, it was a nice night. I had most of two bottles of yummy Koningshoeven Quad (722), and I had most of three bottles of yummy Schlenkerla Marzen (1938). LaptopGirl had the rest.

Later, the place turned back into a sausagefest. I stayed around for a little while, though. Talking to MusicalYuppieDude and a couple of other guys. I left just before they started kicking every out.

I was positive that I'd already written about this, but I couldn't find it, so I'll do it now.

Let's review.

1. Becomes a Jesus freak and pretty much stops all contact with a drinker sinner like me.

2. Moves halfway across the country, and then breaks a promise to call me.

3. Tells me, in both words and actions, that my friendship is not worth the time or effort required.

4. Goes to West Virginia, of all places, and breaks off all contact. Again.

5. Decides, out of the blue, to get back together with her old boyfriend.

6. Becomes an asshole. Or, possibly, unleashes the inner asshole that was already there.

7. Becomes a slut. Or, possibly, unleashes the inner slut that was already there.

8. Pisses off the bartenders so many times that he doesn't come into Rich O's any more.

9. Allows a woman to come between us.

Hmmm, I thought there'd be more. And there would be, if I hadn't limited myself to the last three months.

If I had a friend, then odds are that I either don't have that particular friend anymore, or at least that the friendship has taken a sharp turn for the worse.

But I'm not really complaining. People leave all the time. I'm not complaining, but I am certainly noticing.

It's like all of the rats are leaving a sinking ship. And I'm the captain of the ship.

At least that's one analogy that I came up with.

The other analogy is that practice is over, and all of these people are just clearing the field, because the real game is about to start.

I have serious doubts that this will work. I just wanted to say that, right up front. So there's no doubt about my doubt.

I went to this thing. A meeting, actually. For a thing called National Novel Writing Month. I'd never heard of it before, but apparently they're organized enough to have their own website. Not that that is saying a whole lot. After all, I have my own website.

Anyway. I went to this thing because LaptopGirl invited me to it. I would have, of course, gone to anything to which LaptopGirl invited me. A dog shit tasting. A neo-Nazi convention. A football game. So I felt a bit fortunate that this meeting was about something that I could possibly be interested in. Or, at least, something that I could feign interest in.

The point of this thing, for those of you who haven't clicked the conveniently placed link which I so generously provided, is that you write a 50,000-word novel in a month. The month of November, to be precise.

Also, I'm not really sure that it has to be an actual novel that you write, because I asked if I could just use my regular blog stuff and they said that I could. It can be autobiographical nonfiction. That would be a pretty shitty novel, I think. But I do have a title for it already.

A November to Remember.

Probably not very original, but as long as I don't Google it, I can continue to imagine that I made it up all on my own, and that I was the first to do so.

To write 50,000 words in November would require averaging 1,667 words every day. I looked back through some of my old blog entries, and the longest one I found was 1,800 words. So that was cool. But then I counted all the words for every entry for all of the months that I've done this, and the most words I found was a little over 12,000. So that sucked.

Basically, most of my most verbose writing came when I was crazy. So, to become verbose again, all I have to do is be crazy again. I certainly could do that, but I don't want to.

This entry is a test. To see how long it takes me to write 1,667 words, and also to see if I can do it without much effort. Because I can't imagine putting effort into writing 1,667 words every day for a month. If I do this, I'll just have to sort of skate through most days.

Okay, it was 426 words up to the end of that last paragraph. And it took me about 15 minutes, but I went to pee at one point, so maybe 13 or 14 minutes, tops. Now, all I have to do is quadruple my current output, and I'm home-free. Then, all I have to do is manage the same feat every single fucking day in November.

Doubtful.

I have a very strong suspicion that this would be an easier feat if I wrote fiction. Like a real novel. I've never really tried that, but I don't think I'd be very good at it. And I don't want to write something that has no real hope of being at least readable.

Only 543 now. Damn.

I do have some ideas for fictional stories. There are even a couple that I've had rattling around in my head since I was a kid. I even have a couple of opening sentences waiting at the ready for a story to back them up. I started one, once. It's probably in one of my notebooks around here somewhere. I only remember the first sentence.

Gary knew a flying saucer when he saw one.

Ulysses?

Nope, too dated.

Conan?

Ugh. Too much strength, and my character would not be gay. He would also wear a shirt at all times.

I dunno don't know do not know. Notice how cleverly I just increased my word count? Pretty subtle, I know.

Only 698?!?

Fuck. Not even halfway there.

I kind of think that writing this novel in blog format would be cheating. I'm not saying that I won't do it that way, I'm just saying that the idea doesn't seem quite legitimate. Kind of like when LaptopGirl asked if she could convert one of her existing screenplays to novel format. That, of course, would definitely be cheating.

See, I think that we're supposed to write new stuff. And, I get the impression, it's supposed to be stuff that we wouldn't be writing anyway. Like, it's supposed to be writing that we do specifically for this nanowrimo thingy. That's why I think the blog thing would be cheating. I already write 4,000 words every month, adding 46,000 more wouldn't be that great of a challenge. All I'd have to do is let the crazy thoughts back out of the bottles.

Would that be worth it? No way. Not even for a Pulitzer.

I was thinking about this for a while last night, because sleep was certainly out of the question. At about 3:30 in the morning, I had an actual good idea. Me, of all people. I think that, if I end up participating in this thing, the novel I write will be a direct result of that idea. So that means that I'm not going to say what my idea was so nobody steals it.

Muhaha.

Still only 928 words. I don't see how I could possible make it to my goal tonight. It's almost time to start checking my email every 10 seconds, and I can't be expected to write and do that at the same time.

I think that, tonight, I should stop at 1000 words. That's a nice round number. Wait, I guess that's actually an even number. Maybe, instead, I will stop at 999.

I was wondering, what's the most important piece of advice I could give to anyone starting their own blog?

I didn't have to wonder for very long. The answer is obvious. At least now it is. I wish it had been obvious to me, back when I first started.

Keep it anonymous.

Don't let it be traceable back to you.

Don't tell your family where your blog is, and don't tell your friends where it is. Because, if you tell anyone where it is, they will read it. At first, you might think that you'd want these people to read it. You'll probably write some things that you're really proud of. You'll probably write some things that you want to say out loud, but which you are unable or unwilling to say out loud.

It will be very tempting. You must resist that temptation. I wish, with all my heart, that I'd resisted that temptation. Things would be very different now, if only I'd realized the obvious, back when I first started.

Back before it was too late.

A while back I wrote about random hot girls. And how much I like them. How they're my favorites.

Well, today I have a new favorite kind of girl. This group is not really a replacement for the random hot girl group, more like a specific subset.

See, today it's been raining. I guess that this rain caught a lot of people off-guard. I, for one, was lucky brilliant enough to be prepared. My umbrella was in my laptop bag.

Anyway, this rain caught people unprepared.

So people got wet.

Random hot girls got wet.

People have been running down the sidewalks. To their cars, to their places of work, to restaurants, wherever.

People are running.

And they're wet.

Random hot girls are running. And they're wet.

Random wet hot running girls are my new favorites.

I was going to write about something. I even wrote some preliminary thoughts and a rudimentary draft in my notebook. But I soon discovered that it was going to be really boring, no matter how much I tried to dress it up.

Plus, I thought of something else to write about. And my new thought pushed all of my old thoughts out of my head and they shattered when they hit the floor. So they're gone for good now, those old thoughts.

Now, all I have to do is write something good about the new thing that I thought of.

But not right now, because I thought of the idea quite recently, and I think it needs more time to develop.

So there.

I totally forgot to mention that I've booked my next trip to Las Vegas. After Thanksgiving I'll be there for a week, for the same conference I attend every year. It's always been at The Rio, but now they're moving it to The MGM Grand. This is probably a good thing, especially since The Tilted Kilt will surely be gone from The Rio by then, but it will still feel pretty weird. I think I'm actually feeling a little ambivalent about the whole trip.

I wonder if I should try to call StupidGirl. I guess I've got almost three months to decide.

---

I thought I'd have more to write, but I guess not. Except that women are strange. And everybody already knows that.

So today it was suggested that I be bluntly honest at all times. The unspoken implication, of course, being that I'm some sort of pathological liar.

I'm annoyed by this. Annoyed enough that I will now present two facts.

Fact One: I do not believe that honesty should be used as an excuse for cruelty.

Fact Two: I do not believe that discretion and honesty are mutually exclusive.

That is all.

My family has suffered an unimaginable tragedy.

I don't know when I'll be back here. I'm not going to trivialize what's happened by writing my usual irrelevant drivel.

You ever find yourself surrounded by a group of people, people who you kinda know, but not really? I mean, they're acquaintances, but not much more than that?

You ever listen to them rambling on and on and on, and then suddenly you're struck with the realization that they're all idiots? Or even worse, mindless sheep?

Yeah well, me too.

It's a very revealing realization, and not a particularly good realization.

This is why I remain convinced that talking to and/or listening to people is, generally, a pretty bad idea.

I was just out on my swing, drinking a yummy Koningshoeven Quad (522) and I managed to get excited about writing something. Not anything in particular, though, just a mish-mash of subjects.

I don't like the mish-mash entries. I know that I'm only using them as placeholders. Just so it looks like I'm an active blogger. And I use them to touch upon subjects which really deserve their own entries, but which I'm unable and/or unwilling to write about at length.

For example: Today somebody was somewhere undergoing something. We were a little concerned, but everything turned out okay.

And that's all I can say about that, because it's nobody's business.

Anyway, on with the mish-mash.

---

This morning I was subjected to an interrogation. I evaded the questions as well as I could, but I didn't fool my questioner at all. There are answers that I'm going to have to provide before too much more time has passed. Just to ease some potential concerns if for no other reason. But I need to be able to answer my own internal questions before I can answer any external ones.

Things are complicated, and confusing, and convoluted.

I like it.

---

The ignore game champion of the universe has, apparently, challenged me to another match. I don't know why - her supremacy is undoubted. But I guess I'll play, because I've got nothing better to do.

---

When I was out on my swing just now, that one cat that I call Pete Jr. was there. He was scared of me on the swing, though, so I couldn't get him to come to me.

---

The other night MixedSignalGirl called to let me know that she was moving away Monday morning. Now, she's been gone almost four days. I'm pretty sure that I'm in deep deep deep denial about this. Otherwise I'd be a lot more sad than I am.

I told her everything. About how she's the one. About the rings. She still left. She's still gone. I'm still not as sad as I should be.

---

You guys hear about DeathCat? That cat in that nursing home that predicts when people are about to die?

Pretty creepy stuff, if you ask me.

---

The other day I was accused of being someone's best friend. This was a bullshit accusation, I thought. But, more than that, it put an awful lot of pressure on me to keep doing what I'm doing, and not change a single thing. This pressure is in direct opposition to some other pressure that I'm undergoing. Life is fun.

---

I've been on-call this week for work. This is always a pain in the ass, but this week it's been especially irritating because most of the problems which have arisen have been problems that I can't do a damn thing about.

---

Being on-call also means that I can't go to this dealie that my sister is having on Saturday, because I don't get any signal on my Blackberry at her house. This is annoying enough under normal circumstances - I feel like a caveman or something, being all cut off from the world like that. But when I'm on-call, I must be able to get text messages at all times or I'm screwed.

---

I spend about 33% of my time worrying about one thing, and about 33% of my time worrying about the exact opposite thing. For the remainder of my time, I'm free to worry about whatever suits my fancy.

What the fuck is a fancy, anyway? Sounds dirty to me.

---

I guess that's it for now.

I just spent a couple of hours trying to write an entry about something that's been on my mind for a while.

The results were less than stellar. Much less than stellar.

See, I have good ideas so seldom anymore, that when I finally get a good idea, I put all this fucking pressure on myself to write something worthwhile. And I end up with gibberish. And I give up.

It's much easier for me to just let my fingers do all the work while my brain snoozes in the background. That's what I'm doing right now.

This particular good idea, the one I just tried to write about, was born in an email I wrote to RockGirl a couple of weeks ago. An inordinate amount of my good ideas arrive via from that same route. This is because I can tell her anything, and I don't have to censor any of it.

Not like here in this journal, where I have to censor the crap out of myself.

So, I'll write an email to RockGirl, and I'll say some shit about some crap, and I'll go, "Hey, that's pretty deep! I should write an entry about it!"

Happens a lot.

Then I'll try to expand that idea into an entire journal entry, and like I said, I end up with gibberish. Sometimes it's because I have to censor the entry so much that it loses all meaning. But usually it's just because it starts to feel too much like homework writing the thing. I know it's a good idea, and I know I can and should write a good entry about it.

It's the should part that gets me, I think. I don't want to waste the idea on a mediocre entry.

Also, it's 4:00 in the flipping morning now. I've got to get up at 6:30. That sucks big ones.

Girls who want it:

That one girl.

That other girl.

That girl that I still think about every now and then.

Girls who need it:

The girl from that place.

That girl who I like a lot.

That girl I met that one night.

That one hot girl who doesn't think she's hot for some stupid reason.

Girls who deserve it:

Nobody I can think of.

I realized a little while ago, as I sat smiling about the fourteen most beautiful words I've seen in a long time and emailing RockGirl, I realized that I'd better write something. Because it's been a while. And, honestly, it's been a nice little break. But I fear that if I don't write something quickly then I might never bother to write anything again.

And that bleak future scares me, so here I am.

Anyway, I'm back home. Got back Friday afternoon. The trip sucked, as I'd known it would. I scribbled a few notes, so I might write up a Philly Trip Report eventually. But I might not. Ditto for a Friday Beer Report about last night.

I think I need to ease back into this blogging stuff.

Thanks to everyone who noticed that I was gone.

I just came in from sitting on my swing outside. I was going to sit out there until I managed to think of something entry-worthy, but it's a little too chilly, so I came back in.

---

At Rich O's today after work (Rogue Chocolate Stout (1826)) I had an idea. What if I took all of the penis-enlargement spam that I get and bought everything they offer?

A couple of inches from a special diet, four inches from pills, an additional 20% from some stretching gizmo. And so on. What if I could add them all up?

I bet that, six months and a couple of thousand dollars later, I could sit at Rich O's and drink beer all day, but I'd continue to get paid because my dick could still be sitting at my desk at work doing my job.

It would be win-win!

---

There's a new stray cat outside. It's a very light gray color. I have named it Ghost, in case I ever see it again.

---

WeirdGirl is being a little mean to me. But I guess that's better than being nice to me. Because nice would remind me of what I'm missing.

---

Not that it really bothers me.

It's kinda funny. Not too long ago I kept trying to convince myself that I was a normal happy person. That deception never worked. These days I catch myself trying to get in a bad mood, and that doesn't work either.

---

Today, for some reason, I thought about this one kid from my youth. Not a friend by any stretch of the imagination, just a kid who lived next to my cousins for a while. So we were kinda forced to play with him sometimes. He was a real dick. He's probably in jail or dead by now. Or he's a billionaire. Man, what a dick that guy was!

---

There's something that keeps becoming more of a possibility all the time. Something that I should really be more worried about than I am. But I'm not worried about it very much at all. This may end up biting me in the ass.

---

I can't believe it's 1:00 AM and I'm still up. This is pretty stupid. Especially since I have to get up at the butt crack of dawn again tomorrow. I'm giving NotHideousGirl rides to work as her car woes continue unabated. It's nice to feel useful though.

---

If you ever want to see something funny, go to Rich O's when Roger is there and say something about how 8664.org wants to tear down I-64 in Louisville.

---

I was watching Big Brother tonight (shut up, I like it) and I got to thinking about a Rich O's reality show in that same vein. I don't think I'd be the first regular evicted, but I bet I'd be in the first five. I know without a doubt who the first evictee would be. And I'm pretty sure I know who'd end up winning it all. At least I know who I'd vote for.

---

I'll be gone all next week. If it's anything like the last time I went to Philadelphia, I won't have any time for anything but work. So I might go as many as five days without posting anything. The world will probably keep turning without my input.

---

Now it's 1:18 AM and I'm still up. I am stupid. I think I'll go to bed as soon as I finish this Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier (2085)

I don't know if this entry will go anywhere. Besides my drafts folder, I mean. Where it could sit until the end of time. This is just something I caught myself wondering about the other day.

I've mentioned before that my best friend growing up was Eric, and that Eric's parents own Polly's Freeze. I've also mentioned that my mom worked there, as did my aunt. I grew up 200 yards from the place. So it was maybe like a fourth home for me. After my own home, then my grandmother's, then Eric's, there was Polly's.

Anyway.

I remember back when we were kids. Eric and I would be walking or riding our bikes down some random road, and we'd come across a discarded plastic serving tray from Polly's. Sometimes we'd find these trays miles away from where they were supposed to be. Which was in the Please return trays here - Thanks bins scattered over the Polly's compound. We'd find them miles away because people are lazy and inconsiderate assholes.

Heh, I think it's funny that I used the word compound there.

So we'd come across these discarded trays, and Eric would invariably stop and pick it up so he could take it back to Polly's. "These things cost money," he'd always say. And I'd always think he was a dork, because it's impossible to look cool carrying an empty tray along the road. It was nearly impossible to look cool being around somebody who was carrying empty trays along the road, but I think I managed it okay.

Okay, now fast-forward thirty years or so.

I go to Polly's now, ostensibly as an adult. A lot has, of course, changed. But not enough to make the place any less of a pleasure. I order the same stuff that I used to order, except that milkshakes don't agree with me as much as they used to, so I get a Diet Coke sometimes with my double cheeseburger and fries. I try to sit at the table from which Eric and I would sit and look for pretty girls. Eric's parents are still there running the place. My mom and my aunt are long gone. The girls are still cute, but now they're all jailbait to me, and I find myself wondering what their mothers look like. And every now and then there'll be a dude working the counter. And that's just plain wrong.

Wrong, I tell you! Like a milkshake poured by a guy will taste anywhere near as sweet as one poured by a cute girl.

But I digress.

When I get my food at Polly's, the drink never comes with a lid. I always ask for one, because I'll be driving with my drink and I don't want to spill it. My food always comes with exactly one napkin. I always ask for an extra one, because I'm a slob. My food always comes with maybe a teaspoon of ketchup. I always ask for more ketchup, because I like ketchup with my fries.

The other day I had a late lunch at Polly's, and I asked for all three of these things. This special treatment, if you will. And for some reason I was reminded of Eric, carrying plastic trays along the road like a dork, simply because these things cost money.

And I got to thinking. Lids cost money. Napkins cost money. Ketchup costs money.

When I was a kid, I always used to think that Eric's family was rich. They certainly had more money than my own family ever did. But as I think about it now, I think that it was more just the fact that they got all of their money from Polly's Freeze during the six months each year they were open. Then all Winter they'd live on what they'd saved.

Not a bad gig, if you can get it, but they were not rich by any means. They worked hard for what they had, as did everyone. I'm sure they watched their spending even more than a lot of families did, because they always knew that they'd have to make their money last through the Winters.

So they wanted those trays returned.

And now, I have to wonder about that lid, and that extra napkin, and that extra ketchup. Those things don't cost me any extra, but they cost Eric's parents. By asking for those extra things, I'm essentially taking money from them.

By bringing those trays back to Polly's, Eric helped to pay for his own college education. By asking for a lid and an extra napkin and ketchup, I'm probably taking away from his inheritance. Now, because of my clumsy and slovenly and gluttonous ways, I'm probably denying his kids, and his sister's kids, and his brother's daughter, I'm probably denying them all the chance to live fulfilled lives. So, instead of being all they can be, they'll probably end up living in cardboard boxes in alleys, fighting rats for scraps of food.

Okay, pop quiz time.

Say you make pizzas for a living. An order comes in. The order specifies "light on the sauce."

What do you do. What DO you do?

A) Use less sauce that you normally would. The customer is always right, and even if they're wrong, they should at least get what they paid for.
B) Ignore the request and make a regular pizza. Fuck the customer. You're the goddamn pizza professional, after all. Who does the customer think they are?
C) Be an asshole and load the pizza up with twice the normal amount of sauce. Customers suck. You hate them all and you wish they would die. Or at least leave you alone.
D) Forget about the special request and use the regular amount of sauce, then try to hide your mistake and fool the customer by using additional amounts of all the other ingredients. Customers are all stupid, they will never notice.

This is not a particularly hard quiz. But I'll give you a hint anyway.

The letter corresponding to the correct answer is a vowel.

I'll admit it. I'm not ashamed. I'm not embarrassed.

I like girls. Especially hot girls.

I will go out of my way to see them. To talk to them. To do other things with them, when the chemistry and timing is right. This does not mean that I'm an asshole, or a bastard, or a player, or a male chauvinist pig.

It means that I'm a normal straight single guy.

Like today, I went to lunch. I had a yummy meal, and two yummy Newcastles (6479), and I talked to a pretty girl. If BikerGirl hadn't been working, I might have turned around and gone somewhere else. If BikerGirl was an 800-lb geriatric paraplegic with bad body odor, I'd probably have gone somewhere else in the first place. Like to Lucky Strike maybe. There are pretty girls who work there every now and then.

Appreciating female beauty and company is not a fucking crime against humanity.

It feels good to vent sometimes.

I assume that people are out there celebrating July 4th. At least the Americans are. I don't really know for sure. I just prefer to think that at least some of my friends are having fun today.

I'm certainly not. What seemed like good timing, long ago, has decayed over the years into one of those unfortunate coincidences that my life seems so replete with.

And that unfortunate coincidence is one of the things that I cannot bring myself to write about. That I will not allow myself to write about.

So I guess I'll stop now.

Or at least change subjects.

When I walk from work to The Pub for lunch - something I haven't done for a week because of rain and back twinges - I invariably pass one or more groups of protestors. I don't know what they're protesting. Some work atrocity, perhaps. I just know that I hate them all.

There's something wrong with the whole concept of protesting, I think. These people certainly have the right to free speech, but do they really have the right to annoy the fuck out of people with their chanting and marching?

That can't be what the founders had in mind.

I mean, if I wanted to protest, say, the lack of lesbian porn on prime-time television, I could do it. I could go get a permit. Make some signs. Perhaps recruit some like-minded individuals. And we could all go to our designated public-property sidewalk and march around and wave our signs and demand very loudly about how badly we want more lesbian porn.

Maybe some television executive would hear our demands, and maybe not. But it's a certainty that a lot of other people would hear them. People just walking by, trying to live their lives. They'd be subjected to our chants even though they (a) didn't want to hear our pleas, (b) didn't give a fuck, (c) couldn't do anything about our cause anyway.

But I'd still get to annoy them, because I had a permit allowing me to do so. It just doesn't seem right.

I think that one of the protest groups infesting Louisville, I think that they're demanding more pay or some shit like that. Hey, here's an idea.

If you don't like your job, then go get a new one. Take that energy you're putting into pissing me off every day, take that energy and use it to (a) take a fucking shower, and (b) find a better job.

I can get my lesbian porn off the Internet. You can find a better job. I don't annoy you, and you shouldn't annoy me.

Something I told ArtGirl I'd look up.

Moon Signs Compatibility - Pisces with Virgo

Your two moon signs are completely opposite to each other in an Opposition. This relationship may be extremely good, or it may lead to arguments over your own differences. You must watch for intolerance and lack of understanding. Overall these two signs are only slightly compatible, though you are more likely to be friends.

You are different in your understanding and opinion. Your Moon signs indicate that you are only slightly compatible. Virgo is typically a Moon sign of detail, practical and serious instinctive reactions. A Pisces Moon is gentle, nurturing and protective of others. The two of you must learn to keep your differences intact while at the same time enjoying your similarities.

Sexual Compatibility - Pisces and Virgo

There is a saying that opposites attract and Virgo and Pisces are a perfect example of this phrase. When these two meet, there is instant curiosity and sexual attraction. Pisces will see Virgo as a dream lover and will make every effort to hold onto the sexy and smart Virgo.

Virgo will see social and sexual adventures in Pisces and will always leave Pisces wanting more. Sex will be a strong element that keeps the relationship exciting. Love will blossom over time to the point of possible marriage. As close as these two get, they never really get together. Pisces could get cold feet at the wrong time and Virgo could get insecure. Virgo may say the wrong thing and at the wrong time. Pisces will view this as manipulation and swim away to safer waters.

For this to work, both signs need to truly understand the definition of commitment.

Compatibility rating: 4 out of 4 hearts

Love and Marriage - Pisces and Virgo

Pisces' ability to sense Virgos every mood change and emotional needs of the moment may seem like a good thing, and it probably makes for most of the stress free moments that they will share, but it is hardly something to base a lifelong commitment on. Along with this perception of Virgos needs he/she will also sense the other facets of personality that are not so pleasing to him/her such as: the cold and critical side that will manifest itself at every mistake that Pisces dares to make. Pisces will close his/her eyes to this for awhile.

Virgo will be encouraged to make most of the decisions and Pisces willing abides by them as long as no mistakes are detected. Should Virgo make a mistake in judgment then Pisces can become as critical as Virgo and point the error out sharply. Pisces cannot seem to handle money as it slips through his/her fingers like water so Virgo will have to deal with the financial end of the union. Virgo will want to sensibly discuss differences while Pisces will retreat to his/her inner self to meditate and find the answers.

Virgos imagination in the bedroom is somewhat limited and Pisces could put a strain on the Virgoans nerves when Pisces' lets the imagination run to outrageous perversions. They must both make a lot of compromises to get through this match which is definitely not made in Heaven.

Good thing I don't really believe any of this stuff. At least, not the parts I don't like.

Her name was Leesa. I think that's how it was spelled. She was nice.

I have no idea why she, of all people, popped into my head tonight as I sat on my swing and watched in vain for any signs of an approaching storm.

Leesa was not a popular girl when we were in elementary school. Not by any stretch of the imagination. She was overweight. She wasn't very pretty. She was way smarter than everyone else.

I think it was third grade, when they started torturing us at school, By making us square dance. With girls.

Third grade is probably about right. By then I'd already been screwed over by whores twice in my life. The first time it was Jackie, who professed her love for me one day, and the next day taunted me from the lap of my best friend Kevin. The second time was Kristie, who was so torn by the parallel advances of me and my friend Mike that she broke both of our hearts by holding hands with another guy on the playground.

See, me and whores, we go way back.

Anyway.

Leesa was, as I said, not a popular girl. She was pretty much the opposite of popular. And it didn't help matters that, two or three times a year, her mother would storm her way onto the school bus and yell at all of us for picking on Leesa and making her cry.

I never made Leesa cry.

I was a good kid. I really was. I was never one of those boys who'd pick on a girl because everyone else was doing it.

Starting in like the third grade, and continuing though the sixth grade, they made us square dance. Just every now and then. Maybe three or four times a year. Any more than that, and there'd have been a riot, I'm sure.

So starting in third grade, instead of gym class, sometimes they'd make us square dance. With girls.

The first time, it all happened so quickly. The teacher said to find a partner, and *hocus-pocus* everyone had a partner. Everyone except for me and Leesa. And then, instead of letting us kill ourselves for being the last ones left, the teacher made us dance together. With. Each. Other.

She didn't give me cooties.

She didn't make fun of how bad a dancer I was.

She ignored the giggles of everyone around us as we twisted and twirled as the caller commanded.

She had such a quiet grace about her. Not a physical grace. None of us had that at that young age. But she had a calmness about her. It was only when the teasing overwhelmed her that she ever seemed to notice it at all.

She was nice to me, and in return, I was nice to her.

For the next three or four years, every now and then, they'd make us do square dancing instead of regular gym class. And for the next three or four years, I never wasted a second picking my partner.

It was always Leesa.

I don't remember ever seeing her in junior high or high school. She was probably there - we just didn't share any classes. I haven't thought about her in thirty years. But she popped into my head tonight, when I was watching for a storm that never came, and thinking about what I really wanted in a woman.

I hope she's had a happy life.

First, a public service announcement:

The hosting company that hosts the barenada.com domain has apparently chosen this week to practice sucking dead donkey cocks. Most notably, this has affected all email addressed to or coming from that domain. I estimate that I have three day's worth of incoming and outgoing email jammed-up on the hosting company's servers. Until my hosting company stops practicing sucking dead donkey cocks, email contact with me will be sporadic at best, and nonexistent at worst.

First, I learned that cellphones are banned in the race and sports book areas of casinos not, as I'd thought, because of some tape-delay thing, but because casinos don't want people using the casino's calculated odds and then calling their bookies and placing personal bets.

Second, I learned how to open a beer bottle with a lighter. This is a valuable skill, and quite frankly I'm not sure how I survived to such an advanced age without that skill.

I guess some guys must fall for this shit. I'm glad I'm not one of them.

Hi,

How was your weekend? Mine sucked! My boyfriend dumped me last week and I need to get out there and meet someone. I saw your profile and see that you looked pretty cool. I like older guys too. I need someone more mature. Anyways I just signed up for this dating site if you want to look me up my profile name is "summerfun2"

See more picture of me! its free to sign up! I need a date!

I also have more pictures on there too (including my trip with my girlfriends to the Bahamas last month :)

The last, and only, time I did one of these was almost a year and a half ago. I figure it's time for an updated list.

My apologies to anyone I left out. I assure you that it wasn't intentional. I will continue to make updates here as memories resurface and new things happen.

I've also decided clarifications of the women I write about are indeed frequently asked questions, so I'll be updating my FAQ page with a link to this entry. The things I do for you people.

AlliGirl: One of my favorite people slash girls slash bartenders anywhere. Makes me wish I was a couple of decades younger.

ArtGirl: She's an artist, and she works in a museum. I have a crush on her.

BadPickleGirl: A friend of my sister Dina. We "half-ass dated" for a short while. She's a very nice person, and one of my favorite people to talk to.

BamaGirl: A girl from Rich O's. I only see her and her husband every now and then these days.

BigWheelGirl: One of LaptopGirl's friends. She drove us to see Screech. The nickname is because of a story that LaptopGirl told me about when they were kids. I'm pretty sure that BigWheelGirl hates me with a burning passion.

BikerGirl: See AlliGirl. A hot bartender at The Pub. She has a motorcycle, hence the nickname, which I don't use anymore.

Bubbles: A Rich O's regular. She just has a bubbly personality.

CanadianGirl: She used to work at my company, and she'd show up at Rich O's every now and then. She moved to Omaha. The nickname is because she's from Canada originally. She's a very friendly drunk.

CannonGirl: Another name for TrainGirl. She used to work at this historical place with cannons. I don't know where she's at these days.

CrewCutGirl: A girl from Rich O's. She has the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. I wrote an entry about her once.

CuteAsFuckGirl: She grew up in Washington County. She wants me. The nickname is self-explanatory. I haven't seen her since the day I met her.

CuteBartender: A cute bartender at Rich O's. I have a crush on her.

CuteBlonde: One of the regulars at Rich O's. She's married to some guy who's name I can never remember. Another nickname that needs no explanation. I don't think I've seen CuteBlonde in over a year.

Dina: My sister.

DoableGirl: A cute girl who I've seen at Denny's a couple of times.

DooRagGirl: See NotHideousGirl.

EllaGirl: See WeirdGirl. This nickname, which didn't stick, was because she looks like a girl name Ella from JournalSpace.

EnglishGirl: I spent several hours talking with her in Boston. Extremely nice. I should have given her my email address. She's from England. I haven't heard from her since, probably because I didn't give her my email address.

EwokGirl: Our cubicles used to be next to each other. Sometimes she would bring me free germs. She told me to use EwokGirl as a nickname. She's cute as a bug.

ExoticGirl: A smoldering hot girl that used to come into Rich O's sometimes. She's married. She's got sort of a Middle Eastern look to her, hence ExoticGirl.

EyesGirl: A really cute girl I talked to in Covington, Ky one night. She had two eyes.

FilleFransaiseSexy: One time, CanadianGirl brought some French people into Rich O's. I asked one of the French dudes how to say "hot French girl" in French, and this nickname is the result.

FirstGirl: A PBD at Rich O's, married to another PBD.The nickname is not, as one might suspect, because she was my first girl, but rather because she was the first person to ever talk to me at Rich O's after I started hanging out there.

FoxyGirl: A girl I went to school with. I'm pretty sure she was my first love, as least as far as I knew at the time about love.

GlassesGirl: A friend of Neisha's from childhood, and a former regular at Rich O's. I don't talk to her as much as I used to. Probably because she doesn't come to Rich O's anymore.

GropingGirl: A girl I met in Covington. She seems very nice. Maybe a bit too nice with people she never saw before in her life.

HatGirl: I adore HatGirl, and I wish I could see her more often. Besides being beautiful and smart and funny, she's the only girl who's ever successfully distracted me from missing LaptopGirl. Her fiance is LuckyFucker.

HomelessGirl: See OddlyFamiliarGirl.

HopGirl: Married to ScarecrowDude. Very nice. She likes hoppy beers.

HotBartender: She worked at The Great Lost Bear in Portland Maine when I was there. The nickname is self-explanatory.

HotEuchreGirl: She's hot, and she plays euchre. I don't think she likes me very much. Or maybe she likes me too much.

HotGirl: See BadPickleGirl.

HotGirlsHotCousin: It was just pointed out to me that I hadn't listed her here. She is BadPickleGirl's cousin, and since BadPIckleGirl used to be called HotGirl, well the nickname is pretty obvious. I see HotGirlsHotCousin about once a month or so at Rich O's.

HotRedHead: GlassesGirl's friend. I'm pretty sure that I ruined her life or something by writing about her. Oops. Haven't seen her in a long time.

HotRedHeadGirl: See HotRedHead.

ImprobablyHotMarriedGirl: One-half of TeamHotness, along with UnbearablyHotSingleGirl.

JauntyGirl: SassyGirl's (ex?)-girlfriend. Has a very pretty smile, and I like her a lot. The nickname is because of a jaunty cap she was wearing one day.

KidneyGirl: Just this weird girl that may or may not have tried to pick me up at The Pub once. The nickname is because of the old urban legend about waking up in a tub of ice with your kidney missing.

KittenDamsel: She's listed elsewhere here, but I'm trying to keep her two personalities separate. She's extremely sweet, one of those girls with whom timing screwed everything up. Currently we're thinking about trying again.

LaptopGirl: She moved away and I became sad. I might have mentioned being sad once or twice here in this journal. For a while, after she moved back, I became hopeful that our friendship could be resurrected, and maybe even more than friendship. I was wrong, but I did finally get to try.

LibertyGirl: A semi-regular at Rich O's. She has a 'blog, but she never updates it. The nickname is a bit of a play on her real name.

LibraryGirl: A friend of SassyGirl. She works at the library.

MaineGirl: A really cool chick that I spent several hours talking to in Portland a few years ago.

MaybeCrazyGirl: A girl from Rich O's who may be crazy, as she was hitting on me, of all people.

MisunderstoodGirl: One of the best. I call her this because many people don't make the effort to get to know her, and so they never understand her at all. She's a very cool chick, and quite a good artist. She moved away, and that makes me sad.

MixedSignalGirl: My ex-girlfriend. The nickname is because of a malfunctioning traffic light we encountered on our first date. She could never quite get over the whole LaptopGirl thing. She is, by far, the most amazing person I've ever known, and I miss her every single day, but I also accept that she's better off without me.

NakedGirl: This sweet girl from JS who keeps me company via email sometimes.

NeighborsDaughter: A very cute, very married girl who works at the local GasNStuff and is the adult daughter of my neighbor. She comes into Rich O's every now and then.

Neisha: My youngest sister.

NiceGirl: PlantDude's fiance. Sort of a semi-regular at Rich O's. She's nice, and we make an awesome euchre pair.

NormalGirl: A smoldering hot girl who also seems incredibly nice and down to earth. I keep waiting for her schedule to become less hectic. There could be actual potential there, I think.

NotHideousGirl: A childhood friend of my sister, Neisha. She picked the nickname, in a roundabout way. We used to have lunch together quite often, but not anymore. I think we've broken up, and that's a shame.

OddlyFamiliarGirl: This is NotHideousGirl's sister. That's why she looked familiar.

OddlyPrettyGirl: One of the owners of the Rich O's/SportsTime empire. Not Roger. I don't know why I chose that nickname for her.

PearlGirl: A girl at Rich O's. I think she's becoming a regular or something. She has the same Blackberry model as me.

PeeGirl: This very cute young girl who watched me pee then used me to sneak around the doorman at a bar one night.

PictureGirl: I had a fling/thing with her in Las Vegas. Just cute as hell. The nickname is sort of from how we met. Last time I checked, she was very happily involved with some lucky guy.

PigtailGirl: I had a one night stand with her in Las Vegas. She's from Portland Maine. She had pigtails.

PokerGirl: A hot friend of HatGirl's who plays poker for a living in Las Vegas.

PoolGirl: A cute, married girl that's become a bit of a regular. She's a pool player, apparently.

PortGirl: Some chick that kept talking to me about port wine one night at Rich O's.

ProbableLesbian: This girl used to come in to Rich O's all the time, but I haven't seen her in years. A self-explanatory nickname.

RahRahGirl: A cute friend of NormalGirl. The nickname is because she's a cheerleader.

RealTrainGirl: See SassyGirl.

RedHairGirl: See HotRedHead.

RedRoomGirl: Just this chick that was hot that sat in the red room one night.

RingGirl: A girl I met at BBearno's. We went to Denny's. She has a weird ring.

RioGirl: We went swimming together, and she told me that she liked my hair when it was mussed up. She worked at The Rio in Las Vegas.

RockGirl: My kindred spirit. I've never met her in real life though - I just know her from the Internet. The nickname is because she sent me a rock. Someday I hope to get up the courage to meet her in person. I owe her my life, in every sense except the literal one.

SassyGirl: My lesbian girlfriend. One of my best friends from Rich O's. Her nickname is because of a new, shorter hairstyle that she got.. SassyGirl moved away, and even though she's been back to visit several times, things haven't been the same. I miss her friendship, a lot.

SmolderingHotGirl: A possibly underaged girl that SpikeBoy and I drooled over one night at SportsTime.

SneakyGirl: An on again/off again girlfriend. Mostly off. She's sneaky, and funny. I chose SneakyGirl because she admits it about herself.

SpoonsGirl: My sister Dina's friend. The nickname is from a very dark day in her life.

StalkerGirl: One my readers who flattered the shit out of me by going back and reading three years' worth of drivel. I'm pretty sure that she's hot, but I'm positive that she's married.

StoreGirl: A semi-regular at Rich O's. The nickname is because I ran into her at my local grocery store once.

StupidGirl: A very mean nickname for a girl who turned out to be very nice and sweet. We're officially "involved" now, though we still live a million miles apart, and that makes me sad.

SunburnGirl: See MisunderstoodGirl. One night I changed everybody's nicknames, just to mix things up a little.

SuperHotYoungGirl: The nickname is self-explanatory. She doesn't come around anymore.

SweetAssGirl: I met her in St. Louis. She had a sweet ass.

TacoBell: See JauntyGirl. I called her this when I first met her, because she worked at Taco Bell.

TallBlondeGirl: This cute girl I talked to for several hours at Mac's one night. She actually distracted me from NotHideousGirl's singing, which is something I'd thought would be impossible.

TallLady: One of the regulars at Rich O's. Very nice except when she's trying to get me to smile, then she's too pushy. The nickname is because, duh, she's tall. Like over six feet I think.

ThatOneHotGirl: A girl I became smitten with at Rich O's one night. I kinda want to have children with her, if I ever see her again.

TracingGirl: See VigilanteGirl. One night I changed everybody's nicknames, just to mix things up a little.

TrainGirl: She used to be SassyGirl's girlfriend. She was really nice to talk to, but she moved away so I don't get to see her any more. When I first met her, I got her and SassyGirl mixed up, so I thought she worked for the railroad. Once I found out that I'd mixed them up it was too late to swap nicknames.

TremensGirl: A semi-regular at Rich O's. She's a cute redhead who drinks Delirium Tremens. She thinks I'm brave for some reason.

UnbearablyHotSingleGirl: The other half of TeamHotness, along with ImprobablyHotMarriedGirl.

VigilanteGirl: We used to flirt with each other a lot, when she worked at GasNStuff. The nickname is from a story she told me, when we first met, about chasing down some gas thieves. I didn't see her for a year and a half until one day I ran into her at White Castle. Now I'm hoping that it's not another year and a half.

WeatherGirl: A smoldering hot friend of LaptopGirl.

WeirdGirl: My last girlfriend, as of this writing. I still see her every now and then, but we both realize that there's no future for the two of us. A pregnancy scare help to make that perfectly clear.

WorldsHottestGirl: She used to come into Rich O's a lot, but she stopped. The nickname is self-explanatory.

YoungGirl: A really nice girl from Jack's who I've hung out with a few times as a sort of rebound.

ZodiacGirl: See LaptopGirl. Sigh. One night I changed everybody's nicknames, just to mix things up a little.

I just don't understand this craze. I mean, I understand the goal of the things, but I don't get how they're supposed to be fun.

The bartender at lunch today was doing one. I've seen BikerGirl do them. In fact, I've seen bartenders doing them all over the place. There have got to be better ways to kill time.

In elementary school math class, they'd give us these things, and we'd call them pop-quizzes, and we'd hate them. But now, they're called puzzles and they're supposed to be so much fun?

I just don't get it.

That seemed a lot better in my head than it ended up on the screen. So I've deleted it. But I'll rewrite it, and I'll try to do a better job.

I was going to write some long rambling crap just now, but I changed my mind.

My happiness inertia is running out. I need another push.

So this HarpO guy tagged me to participate in this eight things about me meme that's making the rounds at JournalSpace. And I'm stumped. I've been trying to come up with eight things that (a) I've never mentioned before, and (b) are at least halfway interesting.

And, like I said, I'm stumped. So I'll skip the interesting requirement, and I'll just list eight new things about my lovely self.

1. I've had a lot of different cars in my life, but when I dream about a car, it's always the same one. My 1979 Pontiac Firebird. It was the second car I ever owned.

2. When my ex-wife and I bought a mobile home, and had it moved onto the base where I was stationed, I set the entire thing up by myself. I leveled it and hooked up all of the utilities by myself, in the rain. All I had to help with the leveling was a 4-ton hydraulic jack.

3. When I was in eighth grade, this one seventh grader had a crush on me. I thought she was very cute and nice, but she was an outcast. I succumbed to peer pressure and I broke her heart. She got the last laugh on me by becoming smoldering hot in time for the next school year and then never speaking to me again.

4. I'm pretty sure that the first girl I ever had sex with is a lesbian now.

5. I haven't heard from HatGirl in about a million years. I'm well beyond my normal freak-out point, but I'm still doing okay. I don't like it that I'm still okay.

6. NotHideousGirl told me today that I'm really good at putting out the friend vibes to women. I can't decide if that was supposed to be a compliment or not.

7. A while ago I almost threw $6,000 into the Ohio River, on purpose.

8. Last night I was watching Lost and I got the idea to write an entry about the five best and the five worst moments of my life. But then I realized that I could come up with a million worst moments, but only a couple best moments, so I gave up on that idea.

I think I'm supposed to tag eight people to do this, but I never tag anyone for this kind of stuff, and I see no reason to start now.

I have never in my life been able to climax from a blow-job. Not even close.

There.

Now that I've got my sisters to stop reading this entry, I'll continue.

I was in a fight with one of my sisters recently. Not a real fight, but an email argument of sorts. I don't want to get into the details because it's nobody's business, but I think I can safely summarize by saying that she thought I was the worst person on Earth, and I disagreed.

I bet though, if I was the worst person on Earth, there'd be ways to make some pretty good money out of it. Even if it was just charging people to not hang out with them. Or maybe I could do school assemblies and give a moving don't grow up like me speech. Or a political party could pay me big bucks to endorse someone from a rival party. Like I'm pretty sure that Jesse Jackson must be on the Republican party's payroll.

The possibilities for wealth are almost endless.

And it must be easier than being the best person on Earth, because nobody has ever accused me of that.

I have a problem with toes. Whenever I see bare toes, I become very concerned that I'm going to accidentally step on them and crush them. I don't know if this fear is because of some tragic and long-repressed event from my childhood or what. I just know that I have a real fear of stepping on bare toes. Shoes, and even socks - they don't bother me at all. This is especially an issue at Rich O's because (a) a lot of the people there are hippies who wear sandals even in the Winter, and (b) There isn't much space between the coffee table and the sofa and loveseat.

Speaking of Coffee, if CoffeeDude decides that it's once again time to lecture LaptopGirl on the realities and hardships of life and make her cry, well I might have to think of something to make CoffeeDude cry. Like maybe I'll buy a big expensive bag of coffee and then flush it down the toilet or something.

An excited girl is not a problem that must be solved. It's not a plague upon the land which must be eradicated. It's not a boil that must be lanced. It's not a fire that must be drowned. It's a good thing, even a great thing when it makes the girl's eyes light up like LaptopGirl's were lit up last night.

Speaking of drowning, I don't know how much water plants are supposed to get. My sister is on vacation and yesterday and today were my days to feed the cats and water the plants. I was really hoping for rain so I could skip the latter task, but nooooooooo! It's been beautiful all weekend. Damn my luck.

So I probably gave the plants too much water, and they'll die soon. Or I might not have given them enough, and they'll die soon. Either way, I'm sure they're going to die soon. But at least the cats are okay. I can deal with cats. I know cats. Plants, not so much. Or not at all.

Speaking of plants, today while I was driving home from Dina's, my pretty girl radar went off. I looked to my right, and there was BadPickleGirl, browsing around this plant stand in front of a convenience store. So that was cool. I stopped and talked to her for a bit. She's nice.

Speaking of nice, BigWheelGirl was actually nice to me last night. This was noticeable because she usually tries to disintegrate me with the laser beams she shoots out of her eyes. Shit, last night, I actually made her laugh and grin. One of each, I think.

Speaking of laughing and grinning, that's what I did all night long on my swing. I laughed out loud at the universe which had tried so hard to destroy me. I grinned so big and so much that I half-expected an attorney from Lewis Carroll's estate to show up with an injunction.

You can get cramps in your facial muscles. I didn't know that before. It hurts.

Speaking of learning something new, I also learned that it's a lot more fun for me stay awake for 38 hours because I'm happy than to accomplish the same feat because I'm sad. It's still not that much fun though.

NotHideousGirl and I spent an inordinate time, at lunch today, discussing funerals and funeral parlors.

This is probably my fault. I broached the subject by mentioning that I was going to visitation for a former coworker of mine.

I may have started the discussion, but NotHideousGirl is the one who took it and ran with it. So for about an hour we talked about these happy subjects. I tried a couple of times to talk about something else, such as how weird and/or cute her hair was today, but she'd have none of that.

At one point we played the fun little game of counting how many times we'd been to funeral homes. Maybe you can use this the next time you host a kids' birthday party. Here's my list:

My paternal great-grandfather
My maternal grandfather
My mother
My friend Gary from Omaha
My paternal grandfather
My maternal grandmother
My father
My aunt Carol's sister (visitation only)
My aunt Helen (visitation only)
My former coworker Scott (visitation only)

Not too bad of a list, for someone my age. NotHideousGirl used the word "dozens" as she counted. So she won that game.

But there have also been some who've died and I didn't make it to the funeral home:

My girlfriend Jackie
My maternal grandfather
My cousin Chris
My uncle Tommy
My aunt Elaine
My parents' friend Marie

And probably some others, of varying degrees of closeness.

The point I was going to make here is that for the ten people listed first, my last memory of each and every one of them is of them lying in their caskets. And, for the six people in the second list? My last memory of them is when they were alive, talking, laughing, smiling.

I, personally, very much prefer the latter choice.

I don't like the fact that I cannot think of my mother without my brain fast-forwarding to the sight of her dead in the funeral home, with her hair done all weird and wearing makeup and a dress I'd never seen before.

My last memory of my cousin Chris was the two of us sitting in his kitchen, catching up on old times. Laughing and bullshitting about how absurd our lives had become. How grown-up the world expected us to be, when all we wanted to do was go hiking and climbing trees in the woods.

Yes, I definitely prefer the latter choice.

I've thought about this before, and I think that I've even talked with at least one of my sisters about it. The thing is, I don't want an open casket funeral. I don't want that to be the last time people see me. I'd rather just have pictures posted around the place, and maybe some home movies playing. Stuff like that.

Not my corpse, in a suit, in a box.

NotHideousGirl tells me that I'm weird. And I probably am. But this would probably count as my last wish, right?

Cremate me. Scatter my ashes somewhere pretty. And let the sound of my voice and my laugh, let them be part of your last memory of me.

Okay, I have a confession to make.

I have a difficult time picturing how big 4,000 acres is. But they keep talking on the radio about this fire somewhere. They keep saying that it's 4,000 acres big but I can't picture what that really means.

I mean, I know what one acre is. It's the size of half my yard - the part without the trees. Then, if I take all of my property, that's two acres.

But 4,000 acres?

Who talks like that?

Besides farmers?

A quick trip to the Internet tells me that 4,000 acres is 6.25 square miles. That's a little easier for me to understand.

Some quick mental calculation tells me that 6.25 square miles is the equivalent of a square that's 2.5 miles on each side.

Now that I can definitely understand. And I would venture to guess that most people could understand those terms a lot more easily than 4,000 acres.

Except for farmers I guess.

So why do they keep referring to the size of this fire in acres?

I think it's because it sounds more impressive to say 4,000 than to say 6.25.

But, if that's the reason, then why don't they just say that the thing is 174,240,000 square feet, or 25,090,560,000 square inches in size?

Either of those would be much more impressive and scary-sounding than a measly 4,000 acres.

Come to think of it, why don't men measure their penises in millimeters for the same reason?

1. Do you outline?
If I feel like I'm in a hurry, then I'll outline an entry with vague plans to flesh it out later. Sometimes I even bother to follow through with that plan.

2. Do you write straight through, or do you sometimes tackle the scenes out of order?
I usually just write whatever my hands and fingers feel like writing. I don't think about the ordering of things, but I think they're usually self-enforcing.

3. Do you prefer writing with a pen or using a computer?
I like the idea of writing with a pen into a notebook, but it usually doesn't happen that way.

4.Do you prefer writing in first person or third?
I usually write in first-person mode. But some of my favorite stuff has been written in third-person.

5. Do you listen to music while you write?
I rarely listen to music except when I'm shooting pool.

6. How do you come up with the perfect names for your characters?
Perfection is a goal I rarely achieve. If I assign a nickname and I can remember it later, then that's good enough for me.

7. When you're writing, do you ever imagine your story as a television show or movie?
Nope. I've had dreams that would make good movies, though.

8. Have you ever had a character insist on doing something you really didn't want him/her to do?
Oh, wait. This is a question for real writers, isn't it? I'm going to answer not applicable.

9. Do you know how a book is going to end when you start it?
Not applicable.

10. Where do you write?
In my office usually, and also wherever I happen to be when I have my notebook handy.

11. What do you do when you get writer's block?
I drink beer. Lots and lots of beer.

12. What size increments do you write in?
What the fuck does that mean? I write whatever's in my head.

13. How many different drafts did you write for your last project?
Everything is a draft. Nothing is ever good enough.

14. Have you ever changed a character's name midway through a draft?
Yes, I changed one to YourMama when I realized that she was a whore. What a stupid question.

15. Do you let anyone read your story while you're working on it, or do you wait until you've completed a draft before letting someone else see it?
I usually finish whatever I'm writing in one sitting, so not applicable.

16. What do you do to celebrate when you finish a draft?
Masturbate furiously.

17. One project at a time, or multiple projects at once?
This talk about "projects" seems way too serious for the mental vomiting that I do.

18. Do your stories grow or shrink in revision?
I am the king of rambling, so I'd say that stories grow as they're being written.

19. Do you have any writing or critique partners?
Yeah, right. Like I'd deem anyone worthy.

20. Do you prefer drafting or revising?
I guess revising. I prefer to spew out words, then fix them later.

Okay, for the sake of simplicity, let's say I'm normal on this imaginary scale I just thought up.

In fact, let's stipulate that everybody is usually normal.

It's not a looks scale. It's not a personality scale either, though that's a little bit closer. Maybe it's more of a pleasantness, or a niceness scale.

What it is, is a self-scale.

Clear as mud, right?

Let me explain.

Man I've got a lot of paragraphs already.

Does it even count as a paragraph it only has a single sentence? Is a paragraph defined by content or by spacing and/or indentation?

But I wildly digress.

What I mean is, when I feel like myself, when I am behaving like myself, I'm right in the middle on my personal scale. I'm my normal self. When my energy level is low, such as when I'm more sad or tired than normal, my position on my scale worsens. I become less likable, less friendly. When my energy level is higher, like when I'm excited or happy about something (hey, it can happen) then my position on my scale is higher.

Remember, the stipulation that everybody is normal on their own scale. This means that Richard Simmons is normal. A high-school cheerleader is normal. That Virginia Tech fucker was normal, assuming that he was always sad or moody or homicidal or whatever. Hitler was normal. He was an asshole but when he was being his asshole self, then he was also being his normal self.

There is a point to this, really. I'm not just typing to kill time. Well, maybe that's part of the reason, but it's not the only one.

I almost digressed again. Whew!

I don't know if it's really relevant, but any changes to your position must be, by definition, temporary changes. Because if whatever mood swing that's going on lasts too long, then that becomes the new you, and you become normal again. The scale just gets recalibrated. Like, I'm a lot more sad now than I was five years ago. But I was my normal self then, and I'm my normal self now. It's just that normal has changed for me. Does that make sense? I hope so.

We can also affect others, and they can affect us.

And this is the part where I finally get to the fucking point.

Couples can be similarly rated. Ditto for friends and coworkers and siblings and whatever else might bring two or more people together.

Take your average man and wife. He's normal, and so is she. But when they're together, what happens? Do they act differently than they normally would. Does he shut up so she can dominate the conversion? Does she get angry at the way he talks to other women?

What are they like as a couple? Better or worse or the same?

Do they boost each other up, so that their sum is greater than its parts? Or do they drag each other down? Do people really enjoy time with one, or with the other, but never with both at the same time?

When I was with MixedSignalGirl, we boosted each other up pretty well. Most of the time. People generally liked spending time with us. Most of the time. WeirdGirl also seems to be immune to my powers, so the two us together are probably more fun when we're together than when we're separate.

I know a few couples who don't seem to change at all. My sister Neisha and her husband Chris. My friend Eric and his wife Teri. They are exactly the same whether they're together or apart. This, to me, would seem to be the goal of all this.

I also know a few who, like the married couple in the example above, are real downers for each other. Spending time with one of them is great. Spending time with the other one is great too. But put them together and suddenly everyone starts making excuses to get away from them. Or trying to kill themselves because it's just too fucking depressing being around them.

They drag each other down, and then a sort of a singularity forms, and they start affecting everyone around them. And once that happens, the only hope is that some super-positive couple like TeamHotness shows up and reestablishes the balance in the universe.

So I've been having lunch with NotHideousGirl a lot lately. Three or four times a week, I'll go to The Pub and she'll come and join me. It's almost never planned more than 10 minutes ahead of time. It's always perfectly innocent and platonic.

But people wonder, and then people assume.

WeirdGirl, for example, became convinced that I'd ended things with her because I was seeing NotHideousGirl. I'm pretty sure that I've managed to convince her of the truth.

One bartender, a couple of weeks ago, said to me in an awed whisper, "Dude, you're girlfriend is smoking hot!"

The correct response, of course, would have been, "She's not my girlfriend," or something like that. But that's not what I said. What I said was, "Yes, she certainly is."

See, I like the idea of random strangers thinking that I have a smoking hot girlfriend. That I'm capable of having any girlfriend at all. It's social validation of a sort. Deceptive, certainly, but there have been far worse deceptions over the years.

This deception was harmless. And kinda fun.

But it ran its course fairly quickly. The simple fact that NotHideousGirl and I don't act like girlfriend and boyfriend - there's been very little public slaking between us - that simple fact stopped a lot of the assumptions. Okay, fine, there's been no slaking. Add to that the fact that most people are not blind, and that NotHideousGirl especially is clearly not blind, even more doubters are born.

So most people, by now, are no longer wondering about the two of us. Most people now know the truth. That we are just friends.

Most people, but not all. There are still some people who think we're together together.

So NotHideousGirl and I have briefly discussed ways to convince these stragglers that we're not a couple. Convincing them that we were never a couple, that's probably too much to ask for when it comes to these stubborn people.

But a break-up, a break-up we could do.

And it could be awesome.

So we talked about staging a big break-up fight. Right there at The Pub in the middle of lunch hour, where everybody could see. And everybody could make judgments, and place bets, and gossip among themselves.

"I knew they wouldn't last. She's way out of his league."

"Look at him! He's old enough to be her father!"

"It's about time. I mean, he says he likes nerdy girls, but that's just ridiculous."

But this couldn't be just any old fight. Nope, it had to be one where we each maintained some dignity, and ideally, where we each garnered some favorable attention. And maybe even some pity sex. And, and this is the most important thing - it would have to be the kind of fight which would allow us to remain friends even after the "relationship" was over.

I've been thinking about this proposed break-up fight tonight. Trying to come up with the best scenario. Here are some of my ideas.

I'm an asshole and/or she's a bitch
Way too obvious, and way too predictable. All break-up fights eventually come down to one or both of these accusations. We'd need something more memorable than this, plus it could end up being self-fulfilling if either of us plays our roles too expertly.

She won't let me buy her extravagant gifts
I like this one. It's nice and subtle. It says that I have money, which is always a good thing. And it also says that NotHideousGirl isn't the type of girl who'd be expecting gifts all the time. It shows my generosity. And it also shows that NotHideousGirl cares about more than material things.

I'm too much man for her, if you know what I mean
This, on paper anyway, should be my favorite. The problem, however, with this argument, is that it's a lie just waiting to be revealed. And, if it were to be revealed, it would happen at the worst possible time.

She's insatiable, but there should be more than just raw animal sex between us
I like this one too. I mean, every guy dreams of dating a nympho, right? So that would get NotHideousGirl lots of points. And this argument would also show that I am not a typical man. That I am concerned with more than just sex. That I'm all sensitive and shit.

I don't know if we're ever going to do this, this break-up fight. I think it could be fun, but I also doubt that I could keep a straight face.

So I imagine that we'll just have to keep whittling away at those doubting romanticists. Keep telling them the boring truth, and hope that it eventually sinks in.

A couple of days ago I read on The Dilbert Blog that Scott Adams used the Google Alerts service to keep tabs on what people are writing about him.

I'm familiar with the service. I use it myself. Basically, you tell Google what text to watch for, then when the service finds that text, it emails you with a link.

I use it to looks for my own name, my domain name, and the names of some people who are important to me. Scott Adams uses it to look for the words "Scott Adams Dilbert."

The cool thing is, that by typing that last sentence, I've triggered an email to be sent to Scott Adams, creator of Dilbert. Rich and famous Scott Adams.

That's the cool thing. The fucking cool thing is that, as Scott admits in his own blog, he carries his Blackberry in his pocket.

So, by typing that sentence up there a couple of paragraphs ago, there's a good chance that I've startled Scott Adams, creator of Dilbert, and caused him to derail from whatever train of thought he might have been on.

Maybe he was thinking up his next comic. Maybe I messed that up. Maybe, because of me, it won't be nearly as funny as it would have been.

Or maybe, maybe I jolted him from an idea that was sort of funny to one that's absolutely fucking hilarious.

Maybe he'll be so grateful that he'll start paying me to derail his thought train every now and then.

So what if that lottery thing hasn't worked out? I've got a new retirement plan now.

Today HatGirl told me that I was craftily romantic.

When I got home, I went to dictionary.com to see if craftily was a real word. Indeed it is. So everyone please note the big brain on HatGirl. Beauty and brains. No wonder I like her.

Anyway, I became a little concerned when I read the first definition given for crafty:

skillful in underhand or evil schemes; cunning; deceitful; sly.

But, since my brain absolutely refused to ingest any thought that might indicate disapproval by HatGirl, I decided to take it as a compliment. I'm pretty sure that's what was intended anyway. Kinda sorta.

Come to think of it, I probably should have tried harder to be insulted. I need some more drama in my life.

But I didn't.

Instead, I decided to write this boring no-drama-having entry about being romantic.

When I was young, I used to bring my ex-wife roses. All the fucking time. Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. The 18th of every month. The 5th of every month. Sometimes just for the fuck of it. I thought, back then, that I was being romantic. But I wasn't. What I was being was needy and clingy. Though I didn't know it at the time, I was trying to save a doomed relationship.

The context of my attempted romanticism prevented it from being real at all.

Now that I'm a lot older and a little wiser, I think that romance should be spontaneous. It should never be needed. It should never be in response to anything. It should just happen. A tiny unexpected gesture that comes out of the blue and, for a few seconds or minutes or hours, completely disarms the girl.

Almost a year ago I wrote about a time I did something romantic. I think that was when I really started to recognize the power of romance. I began to watch for opportunities.

Opportunities for spontaneity. There's an oxymoron if I ever saw one. But that's what they were.

That thing with the card, that was a pretty grand gesture. It shouldn't have worked. It should have scared her off, once the initial shock had dissipated. And I suppose that it did, a little. It was weeks before I heard from that girl again.

It was too much, too soon. I had nothing to back it up. Nothing to top it.

I've gotten a lot better over the years. When I want to, I can sweep a girl off her feet. That's not me being cocky or egotistical. It's just me being honest. The hard part for me is wanting to do it. So few girls seem worth the effort.

Shit, I even did something romantic for LaptopGirl once. It was, of course, ignored. Because it was too late. It wasn't spontaneous. It was an attempt to fix something. It was needy and clingy.

But my shining moments, my shining moments were all with MixedSignalGirl. We've talked about it a lot. She really brought out the romantic in me. She was always surprised, every single time. And she'd smile and the room would light up. She told me that she'd go for days and it would seem that her feet would never touch the ground.

But, in the end, it wasn't enough. That cake was almost all frosting. For both of us.

Fuck. Now I'm in a bad mood. I think I'll stop writing now.

I forget where I was going with this entry anyway.

Probably somewhere stupid.

I got my first-ever anonymous gift from a reader a couple of weeks ago. At least I assume it was from a reader. There was no note with the gift. No email has arrived to explain anything. Just a box from amazon.com, with a copy of The Game inside.

Weird, huh?

The book somehow manages to be both intriguing and repulsive. It's certainly interesting. It's kind of inspired me, actually. Not to be one of those guys or act like one of those guys. Instead it's inspired me to simply open up a little. Be more friendly to people around me. Not be such a grouch all the time.

So I've been doing that, and I've been in a much better mood lately. I'm no longer pretending to be a normal and friendly person, I'm actively working on becoming a normal and friendly person. It's tough at times, talking to people that I don't know. Especially when they're idiots. But it's kinda fun, too.

I've also noticed that my urge to write here has suffered. Perhaps I'm only allowed one outlet for expression at a time. Perhaps this is merely a lull. Perhaps it's growing pains.

So a while back, I had my tongue in this girl's mouth. I had my tongue in her mouth, and I was struck by the realization that I was wasting my time.

I wasn't thinking that it was fun, that she smelled good, or that she was hot, or that it was a pretty good ego-boost for me at a time when I really needed it.

Nope, I was thinking that it was a waste of time.

Of course, that didn't stop me from slaking the shit out of that girl. I am a single straight guy after all.

Anyway, a couple of days ago I saw the girl again. I was eating lunch. She was working. She came up to me and, after the required Hi and How are you doing?, asked, "I'm embarrassed to have to ask, but what was your name again?"

Ouch.

Like I said, a waste of time.

For her too, apparently.

Women are strange.

...my true love gave to me,

Twelve adorable little hats,

Eleven DaveFest t-shirts,

Ten doses of Paxil,

Nine orthodontist appointments,

Eight ponytail holder thingies,

Seven trips to Vegas,

Six pints of Tremens,

*** Five pairs of jeans with sexy yet still modest holes in them ***

Four sleepless nights,

Three designated drivers,

Two cute pairs of glasses,

And a yummy pint of Guinness.

---

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO HATGIRL!

YAY!

...my true love gave to me,

Eleven DaveFest t-shirts,

Ten doses of Paxil,

Nine orthodontist appointments,

Eight ponytail holder thingies,

Seven trips to Vegas,

Six pints of Tremens,

*** Five pairs of jeans with sexy yet still modest holes in them ***

Four sleepless nights,

Three designated drivers,

Two cute pairs of glasses,

And a yummy pint of Guinness.

...my true love gave to me,

Ten doses of Paxil,

Nine orthodontist appointments,

Eight ponytail holder thingies,

Seven trips to Vegas,

Six pints of Tremens,

*** Five pairs of jeans with sexy yet still modest holes in them ***

Four sleepless nights,

Three designated drivers,

Two cute pairs of glasses,

And a yummy pint of Guinness.

Something's been bothering me all day.

Not, as some people might suspect, not the fact that HatGirl called me "Dan" last night. That was surprising, but only until I realized that she'd had a whole inch and a half of beer. I actually consider myself lucky that she got the first two letters right. And that she didn't vomit on me.

What's bothering me is something that I can't really write about, except in a vague and generic and rhetorical sense.

Did you ever do something incredibly stupid? Maybe even something that seemed, deep down in your gut, like a bad idea, but you did it anyway? Something where, if you'd thought to actually ask, everyone you know would have told you how stupid you were about to be? But you didn't bother to ask, because you were being so stupid that you thought you already knew all the answers?

And then, days or weeks or months later, then did reality come crashing down upon you, making you realize how stupid you'd been? And did you then wonder why nobody had told you, before it was too late, how stupid you were about to be?

Did you ever wish that people would have just spoken up, that they wouldn't have waited for you to ask? That they'd locked you into a barrel and fed you through the bunghole until you came to your fucking senses?

Well I've done every one of those things. More than once. But right now I find myself on the other side.

That's what's bothering me. I want to help someone, convince someone to not do something stupid, but I haven't been asked for advice, and it's really none of my business anyway.

I kinda wish I had a barrel handy tough. Just in case.

This DM1 dude tagged me to list some crap. I just copied these from my about me page.

1. I have this rock. I talk to my rock and take it everywhere. Did I mention that it's a rock?

2. I'll make up new, cat-themed lyrics to songs and sing them to my cats. I make Buddy dance with me while I do this.

3. I've developed the habit of smelling my beer before each sip, to enhance the tasting experience, and now that habit has spread to everything I drink. Doesn't matter if it's water or Diet Vanilla Coke or orange juice or whatever - I'm smelling it before each sip.

4. I brush my teeth, then rinse with this supposedly "cool mint" mouthwash that burns my mouth so much that I brush my teeth again right away to neutralize the mouthwash.

5. When I'm on the phone at home I can't just sit and talk. I have to either walk around or shoot pool or straighten things up - anything but just sit and talk.

...my true love gave to me,

Nine orthodontist appointments,

Eight ponytail holder thingies,

Seven trips to Vegas,

Six pints of Tremens,

*** Five pairs of jeans with sexy yet still modest holes in them ***

Four sleepless nights,

Three designated drivers,

Two cute pairs of glasses,

And a yummy pint of Guinness.

Just two more days of work, then a five-day weekend! Then two days of work next week, followed by a four-day weekend!

Yay and yay!

But wait! I'm on-call next week.

Boo!

---

Looks like my little diatribe about HatGirl's birthday did some good. People have recognized her spectacularity and have agreed to attend her party. HatGirl at first wanted me to bring cut up tomatoes, but I told her that's way outside my culinary abilities. Now I'm bringing taco shells and shredded cheese. Those things I can handle.

---

I get irritated when people jump right out of one relationship and into another. This is probably just a jealousy thing.

---

I slept for ten hours last night. I needed it.

---

There was a brief period when I thought that there was an actual chance that I might have a girlfriend this holiday season. I think that would have been nice. Especially on New Year's Eve.

---

This dude at work was on the phone yesterday morning. He hung up the phone and announced that he had to go to Mexico. We all thought he was kidding. Then the guy flew to Mexico, and so now we're not so sure.

...my true love gave to me,

Eight ponytail holder thingies,

Seven trips to Vegas,

Six pints of Tremens,

*** Five pairs of jeans with sexy yet still modest holes in them ***

Four sleepless nights,

Three designated drivers,

Two cute pairs of glasses,

And a yummy pint of Guinness.

...my true love gave to me,

Seven trips to Vegas,

Six pints of Tremens,

*** Five pairs of jeans with sexy yet still modest holes in them ***

Four sleepless nights,

Three designated drivers,

Two cute pairs of glasses,

And a yummy pint of Guinness.

...my true love gave to me,

Six pints of Tremens,

*** Five pairs of jeans with sexy yet still modest holes in them ***

Four sleepless nights,

Three designated drivers,

Two cute pairs of glasses,

And a yummy pint of Guinness.

...one to go.

This one will be the real test.

...my true love gave to me,

*** Five pairs of jeans with sexy yet still modest holes in them ***

Four sleepless nights,

Three designated drivers,

Two cute pairs of glasses,

And a yummy pint of Guinness.

...my true love gave to me,

Four sleepless nights,

Three designated drivers,

Two cute pairs of glasses,

And a yummy pint of Guinness.

...my true love gave to me,

Three designated drivers,

Two cute pairs of glasses,

And a yummy pint of Guinness.

...my true love gave to me,

Two cute pairs of glasses,

And a yummy pint of Guinness.

...my true love gave to me,

A yummy pint of Guinness.

...two to go.

I'm not holding my breath though. If I did things like that I'd have been dead for a long time.

I'm wondering, did she simply use me for my knowledge of beer and its various glassware?

And, after having gleaned that information, could she then find no other use for me?

Well I suppose that's okay.

It's not like I didn't get anything from the experience.

I checked her ass out every chance I got.

Nice.

Damn.

I had a thought.

Not more than five minutes ago, I had an actual thought.

But that train was derailed. Derailed by my cat Nugget deciding that now would be a good time to jump into my lap and finally welcome me home from Las Vegas.

Oh, what a good kitty Nugget is! Now go away.

Now to get that train back on the track.

I have no idea what I was thinking.

I bet it was about some girl though.

Because I never know when Evangeline Lilly is going to approach me and challenge me to a tongue-wresting match, I've been carrying these little Listerine thingies around with me all the time.

They look like thin sheets of plastic, and they dissolve almost instantly in my mouth. You've probably seen them.

Anyway, sliding one of the thingies out if its container and putting it on my tongue takes about two seconds, and makes my breath minty-fresh.

But when five or six of the things stick together, and I don't realize it until it's too late, they set my entire mouth on fire and make me for several painful moments regret that whole being born choice that I made many years ago.

I didn't say that this would be an interesting entry.

...because I'm finding it difficult to stretch anything out beyond a few sentences.

I think that an implied lie might be even worse than an explicit one. Why would I think such a thing? Well, because an implied lie reveals not only the foolishness of the recipient, but also the cowardice of the liar.

---

I bought a new jacket on Friday, and this morning the snap thingy on the sleeve broke. So my luck may be turning. Yesterday was nice though.

---

When I leave the quiet and solitude of my room, and ride the elevator down, and walk out onto the casino floor, I always smile. It's like I forget where I am, and the lights and the music jolt me back to reality. I love it here.

---

It sucks to not have a camera phone anymore. I did bring my good camera with me, but I don't feel like lugging it around 24/7.

---

It would be cool to bring NotHideousGirl to Las Vegas. We could find an open-mike night somewhere, and she could sing and be discovered and become famous and shit. All thanks to me.

...yes, I'm fucking pissed.

Mostly about how I react to certain stimuli. Or the lack of certain stimuli.

But only mostly.

Fucking look them up yourself:

cour-te-sy
po-lite-ness
de-cen-cy

It would have taken ten fucking seconds out of your life to lift my mood.

Apparently, that was too much to hope for.

I'm out now. Don't even fucking bother.

Every place was closed tonight. At least every place I felt like going to was closed. So I just came home and opened a bottle of Bluegrass Mephistopheles Metamorphosis. This bottle is completely flat too.

---

I think every risk should have an associated reward. You have to weigh them against each other. If the risk is too great, or if the reward is too small, then you pass on the whole thing. This is just common sense. And then there are times when there's no real risk, and there's no detectable reward. Then it just becomes a fucking waste of time.

---

Happy Birthday to LaptopGirl. There, I fucking said it. Fuck off if you don't like it.

---

I have some relatives who seem to be pissed at me for some unknown and probably stupid reason. I feel like I should give a shit, but I don't.

---

I think that the perfect scenario would be for me to somehow win a gazillion dollars in Las Vegas and then never come back here except to retrieve my pool cue and my cats.

---

I didn't ask for this bullshit. I don't think I deserve it either.

---

Maybe I should get me one of those voice recorder dealies. I have these stupid random thoughts all day long. I could record them and post them in my blog to show the world how boring I am.

For anyone trying to figure out what I want for Christmas, that was a hint.

---

There was one path to forgiveness but she didn't take it. Her loss. I really shouldn't care, but I'm not getting any younger I suppose, so I do care.

---

I'd decided that I would politely decline the invitation. Now, now I've decided otherwise. Bring it on. I'm looking forward to it.

---

Seriously, what the fuck is going on? Am I being set up? Am I being placed into the batting order? Am I being benched? I think I've done everything I can do to get put into the game. Yes or no, please. No more fucking maybe.

---

Tonight I might get to see HatGirl and NotHideousGirl. Either would be cool. Both would be fucking awesome. So I probably won't see either one them.

---

I keep writing about the same subject and then deleting it. It's over, and every time I write about it, it gets more stupid and pointless.

---

This beer is fucking with my head.

---

There was a girl at Rich O's last night that looked like puppyshark. She was hot.

---

I miss SassyGirl.

---

I am so excited for my friend RockGirl. This thing she's going through is similar to what I went through at this time last year. It was the beginning of the end of the pain. I'm so excited for her.

---

I need to make it to Memphis one of these weekends to see harpo play a gig.

I wish I had musical talent.

---

I wish I had more turkey to eat right now. All I've got is some Nacho Cheese Doritos. Not quite the same thing.

I think I've figured something out. I think I know who started this. Whatever this is.

---

My turkey nap lasted a lot longer than I'd intended. I'm still going out though, as soon as my shirt dewrinkles. I don't know where I'm going. I don't even know if there are any places open.

---

So there are three people who pretty much know everything. Two of those people give me completely wrong advice. What's funny is that each gives different advice. But they're both quite wrong. The answer doesn't lie in either of those directions, because there is no answer.

The third person understands that.

---

I got to talk to BadPickleGirl this morning. It was, once again, a very pleasant surprise. Bordering on astonishment actually. There, she's said that she wanted more mention here.

---

Tomorrow I get to go shopping. Not because of the whole post-Thanksgiving shopping mania. Just because I need some shit. Like a new suitcase, and maybe some jeans. Most of my old jeans are mysteriously shrinking. So I need to buy some new shit before I leave Sunday morning.

---

Vegas, baby! Woo hoo!

---

One of my friends doesn't seem to be my friend anymore. That's a shame to me. Would have been nice to at least have had a chance to say goodbye.

---

They were going to fry a turkey today, but the fryer started spewing hot oil out through some holes, and we were afraid that we'd ended up burning the house down. Luckily, my sister had a spare Turkey roasting in the oven.

---

I'm outta here.

Tonight, for a change of pace, I had a beer. This was the fourth bottle that I took to BadPickleGirl's house on Friday. We didn't get to it then, so I got to it tonight.

Bluegrass Mephistopheles Metamorphosis (25)

(bottle) No foam at all. I mean none. I've seen tap water with a bigger head. Other than that, poured a slightly hazy orange. Taste was, as expected, fairly flat and generic. Yeasty and bland in flavor, this beer did grow on me as time went by. I'd love to try this in draft form someday. Maybe there'll be some fizz then.

I think, instead of trying to tackle any of my new entry ideas, I think I'll just quote from my friend NotHideousGirl's blog:

Dave Siltz is the weirdest normal person I know, and I love him for it.

In response to that, I'll say this:

Kat is the most beautiful girl I know, who doesn't act like she's beautiful, and I love her for it.

Finally, my sister Neisha accused me the other day of killing and eating my cat Nugget, since she hasn't seen him in years and years. As proof that Nugget still lives, I present this picture (taken tonight) of him in all his fatness, along with the scratching post that he's slowly but surely shredding to bits:

a-dore (e-dor)
verb
1. To worship as God or a god.
2. To regard with deep, often rapturous love.
3. To like very much.

I think that number three is the correct definition here. Neither of the other two are correct. To tell the truth, number three doesn't seem quite right either . It seems too perfunctory. Too abrupt.

If I were to say that I adore HatGirl, and you were to translate that to mean that I like HatGirl very much, well it just wouldn't be quite be right.

I mean, I like the curry fries that the pub sells very much. I like banana milkshakes from Polly's Freeze very much. I like the way my cats purr when I pet them very much.

But, do I adore any of those things?

Nope.

But I do adore HatGirl.

Let me be clear - this is not based on any physical attraction. It is not a crush thing. It has, believe it or not, nothing at all to do with how pretty she is. I cannot stress that enough.

It's much more than that, and much less than that.

Let's try another definition.

a-dor-a-ble (e-dor-e-bul)
adjective
1. Delightful, lovable, and charming.
2. Worthy of adoration.

I couldn't have said it better myself.

HatGirl is, quite simply, adorable.

And I hope that she reads this. And I hope that it makes her feel a little bit better.

Are you like me? Do you sit around on election day, wishing that you could be a part of the Democratic process, but woefully ignorant about the candidates and their stands on the various issues?

I'm like that every November and every May. But it doesn't stop me from voting. I have a system, see. And I'll reveal it here for the first time.

Just think of some asshole you know. Everybody knows at least one, right? Every family has at least one. Every group of friends has at least one. And most workgroups have dozens.

Now, think about who your favorite asshole would vote for. I've found that it's usually pretty easy. Maybe they've bombarded you with their political views for as long as you've known them. That's how I picked my asshole.

Ewww, that sounded gross.

That's how I chose my asshole.

Okay, that's better.

Then today, all I had to do was go vote the exact opposite of everything my asshole would vote for.

I cancelled out the fucker's votes.

And, to me, the fact that I totally negated that asshole's participation - well it's just fucking hilarious to me. I mean, he lives and breathes politics, and all I do is drink beer and shoot pool. But I, with 30 minutes of effort - including drive and standing in line time - was able to pretty much wipe out his reason for existing in the first place.

So, don't waste another election day. Do something useful. Make a difference. Find yourself an asshole and render him irrelevant.

If you don't know any assholes, I've got news for you. You're probably the asshole.

Bands that I never heard of that had a free concert in Louisville tonight
Blue October

People that I don't like
That one bitch that called MixedSignalGirl a cow and tonight poured me the wrong beer or maybe she poured the right beer but she peed in it

People that are nice
That chick from Evansville that I talked to tonight

People that confuse me
All those Irish guys that drank nothing but Bud Light all night and one of them stole my glasses for a while

People that do not freak out
HatGirl

People that freak out
Every other woman on Earth besides HatGirl

Food that is good
The Curry Fries that The Pub sells

Girls with horrible taste in ex-husbands
That one chick that was married to my cousin once

Cute girls
That blonde bartender at Rich O's

Girls with cool hair
That one bartender at Hard Rock in Louisville

None of these lists are meant to be all-inclusive.

Apparently, anyway.

Part of the problem is that the things that are funniest to me, they're funny only from my perspective.

For example, probably the most hilarious thing ever in this journal was something that I didn't write, back in early August. See, it was the omission that was funny. Like if I won the lottery or something, and then decided to never mention it. Not out of privacy concerns, but just because to neglect mention of such a life-changing event is, well like I said, funny to me.

Then I had to go and ruin the joke, a couple of weeks ago, by rambling on and on about that same topic which I'd so carefully avoided for over two months.

Oh well.

Another problem is that, when I try to write something funny, it never works out for me in the long run. I mean, I can go back and read the entries that were supposed to be funny, and I barely crack a smile most of the time. So attempting to write anything funny is never self-reinforcing.

But some of the stuff I write is, apparently, funny to other people. I get compliments on some stuff. I get told how I made someone's day. Shit like that. I usually just say thanks and dismiss those people as humor-impaired because the stuff they're chuckling over or maybe even wetting their pants over just isn't that funny. And it never was, except when it was still being brewed inside in my head.

I was going somewhere with this entry. I have no idea where.

Yesterday I was poking around The Dilbert Blog, which might be more accurately called The Scott Adams Blog but then it might only get a zillionth of the traffic it gets.

Seriously, this guy could trip over his cat, fall on his keyboard, and the resulting post would net ten thousand hits and one thousand comments.

Anyway, I really like it. Scott Adams writes the way I wish I wrote. He writes the way things sound in my head.

So I was reading an old entry about affirmations, which is this deal where you write down something that you want to accomplish and it comes true. Specifically, you write down your goal fifteen times a day for at least six months. And then it comes true.

You write, for example, I will cure cancer. You write that fifteen times a day for six months, and then you cure cancer.

Sounds pretty fishy, right?

Shouldn't that be Smells pretty fishy? I don't know. Or care.

I decided to give these affirmations thingies a try. What's the worst that could happen? That they wouldn't work. That I wouldn't achieve whichever goal I was trying to achieve.

Well, whichever goal I chose would be one that I wasn't achieving anyway, so there's no loss. Try to keep up please.

The decision to do the affirmations having been made, I had one final choice.

Which goal should I pick?

The cure cancer one is too obvious. I bet a lot of people are already doing that one. I'd hate to waste my affirmations on something only to find out that some prick had already achieved my goal.

In fact, I figured that most of the selfless goals like the cancer one and world peace were already taken. So I needed to find something more personal.

I toyed briefly with improbable goals like I will find a gazillion dollars, and seemingly impossible goals like I will understand women, and countless others, but none really jumped out to me as the goal which would be worth the effort of writing it down fifteen times a day for six months.

I was getting frustrated with myself, and I went to the kitchen to refill my soda.

And I tripped over my dick.

Again.

After that, I realized that the choice was easy.

So I grabbed my pen, and I opened my new affirmations-only notebook to the first page, and I wrote.

I will stop tripping over my dick.

I wrote that fifteen times.

I even wrote the date at the top of the page, though I don't think that's an official part of the affirmations rule. I just thought it made the whole thing look more official.

If this works for me, then I'll finally be rid of a curse that's plagued me since puberty.

I'll keep you posted.

I've got nothing to say tonight.

I'm all tapped out from another project.

Maybe tomorrow I'll write something brilliant.

Everybody can start holding their breath now.

I think what would be a good thing to do, if you were a car thief, would be if you always replaced the car you stole with a little Matchbox version of the same car.

People would be like Woah, somebody stole my car! And then they'd see the Matchbox car and be like Wait, it's not stolen, it's just been turned into a Matchbox!

And they'd never report it to the police because who'd believe that their car had been turned into a Matchbox?

Somebody told me today that I shouldn't censor myself here. This was well-intentioned advice from a person who, I'm assuming, doesn't have a blog out here for the world to see. A person who, I'm assuming, doesn't have to live with the fact that they're basically standing in a fishbowl with their pants around their ankles while friends and enemies and strangers all point and make judgments and assumptions.

As I said, well-intentioned advice. Just not particularly doable. Or not not doable, since I'm talking about not doing something. Wait, that makes no sense either. Where's a good grammar coach when I need one?

There are many reasons why I feel the need to censor myself here. All of those reasons have at their root, at their very beginnings, the same mistakes. I made mistakes here when I first started doing this. I made this my blog. I used my real name. I let people know about it.

And now they read the fucking thing. What could I have been thinking?

Joe Blow and Jane Doe in, say, San Diego don't know or care about the people behind the nicknames I use here. MixedSignalGirl is a love interest in a story to them. LaptopGirl is another, more mysterious, character. WomanRepellant is, to most of my readers, no different than Norm on Cheers. SassyGirl was a minor character who's contract ended and wasn't renewed. I could go on and on.

To Joe Blow and Jane Doe, none of those people are real at all. Hell, I'm barely real to them. I'm just the protagonist in this rambling story.

But guess what. All of those people are real. To me, and to themselves. Sometimes to each other.

And so I censor myself. Because some of the people reading are, get this - the same people I'm writing about.

The person who advised me to not censor myself?

BadPickleGirl.

There, see? I've already said too much. People will read that and know that I talked to her today. What if that gets her into trouble? It's none of the world's business that I talked to her today, but there it is anyway.

It's also none of the world's business that I kinda like BadPickleGirl but, now that information is available for everyone to read and know.

For her to read and know.

Oops.

I censor myself because it's the right thing to do.

I should, if anything, do a better job of it.

Maybe tomorrow I'll start working on it.

Women are strange.

They're also delightful and confusing and beautiful and aggravating and soft.

But mostly they're just strange.

I've mentioned before how I tend to migrate from room to room at night. Master bedroom to guest bedroom to living room to master bedroom, and so on.

I'm guessing that this behavior must be related to stress.

My cats and I have several little parades a night sometimes. MixedSignalGirl used to join in the parades, but eventually she wised up and she'd run on ahead to make sure she ended up with "her" side of the bed. Then she wised up even more and she just stayed where she was because, chances were, we'd all be back before the night was over anyway. Now she's wised up completely and wants nothing to do with me.

Anyway, I guess that last night I screwed something up. I remember going to bed in the guest room, and I remember waking up on the sofa in the living room. But I also remember waking up sometime during the night in my master bedroom sleeping on a pile of clean laundry.

That's what did it, I'm sure.

I fubared my back.

I suspect that the advanced yoga position I must have attained to be able to sleep with the laundry and the cats did something to a nerve or something, since this morning I could barely walk.

So I shuffled in to work because I had some shit that couldn't be put off, then I took the second half of the day off. Once home, I mostly just took a very hot bath and then slept.

Now my back feels a little better. I'd like to get a heating pad for it. Or maybe I could borrow one of my grandmother's old walkers.

I want to say something now.

I shouldn't say anything. There are those who would say that I haven't yet earned the right to say anything.

Well, those people are wrong. Mostly wrong anyway. So I'm going to say something. But, out of respect for someone who hasn't yet earned my respect, I'm not going to say what I really want to say.

What I'm instead going to say is this:

I quit playing that particular game a long time ago. I lost every single fucking time, and I never once had fun. I have no desire to ever play that game again.

There, I feel better now. I guess.

And the really cool thing is if anyone asks me what the fuck I'm talking about, I can make up some bullshit. Or not. I guess it'll depend on how much bullshit I get thrown my way first.

I was dicking around with this today, showing a coworker the route to the expressway, and I noticed that the resolution seemed to have improved. Intrigued, I directed the application to a little town that had always been nothing more than a blur of pixels.

Now it's much better. I guess Google Earth has updated its database with new images.

Very cool.

Tonight I was looking for something in my old emails. I didn't find what I was looking for, but I did find this:

Reminds me of this girl I dated briefly right after my divorce. She had the unfortunate name of [same as my ex-wife], and she was kind of a [use your imagination]. The latter is the reason that we broke up. Anyway, one night shortly after we broke up, I came home from pool league and [the girl] and her friend had filled my entire living room, kitchen, hallway, bathroom, and bedroom, up to a height of about four feet, with balloons.

It was really incredible. They must have started the minute I left for league and worked non-stop for several hours. I guess my roommate had let them in.

Ha, that just made me smile to think about. Maybe I should write an entry about it.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure that were I to think back I'd be very hard-pressed to ever come up with anything that anyone has ever done for me that was as nice as that. I mean, it really lifted my spirits during a time which was up to that point the saddest time in my life. And the amazing thing was that it wasn't a ploy to get me to take her back. She did it just because she wanted me to feel better. We were finished before we'd ever really started, but it was still important to her that I be happy for a while.

It worked. Even though I had to spend a couple of hours popping balloons, and even though I had to buy a new vacuum cleaner after the first one burned out from trying to deal with all the balloon fragments, it really worked.

Thinking about this tonight, I tried to recall the nicest thing I'd ever done for someone else. And not just the nicest thing, but the most selfless thing as well.

I can think of lots of little things. I am a decent person after all. But I'm having a hard time coming up with anything that's nearly as impressive as those balloons.

This one time a couple of years ago I overheard an elderly couple getting bad directions from a gas station employee. I followed them to their car and told them that I hadn't been able to help but overhear, and that I was going their way, and that they could just follow me to their Son's wedding rehearsal. I then drove 30 minutes out of my way so they could follow me. They said I was a real good Samaritan.

Right now, that's the best I can come up with.

I can do better than that. Perhaps I have done better than that, but the memory eludes me. Either way, I want to do something nice. I want to do something for someone that makes them smile when they think about it in 20 years.

Maybe nice and selfless can't be done on purpose. Maybe, by stating this goal, I turn it into a selfish one.

I dunno.

Time for bed.

That's what Roger, the owner of Rich O's, told me I provide with my 'blog.

Apparently, if I bitch and moan about the crowd in his place, then Roger knows that he's having a lucrative night.

And, if I'm happy about the crowd, or if I don't mention it at all, then Roger starts worrying about how he'll fund his retirement if business doesn't pick back up.

I thought it was funny. I didn't say that anyone else would.

Last night, because I'd had two pints of Smithwick's after work, and because I'd then had half a pizza, and because there wasn't shit on TV that I wanted to watch, I went to bed at 8:00 and slept for 11 hours.

Now my head feels like it's full of hardening cement.

And now I get to go to a work meeting where we'll all get to find out how screwed up we are. We all had to take these personality profile tests a while back, and this is the meeting about the results.

Should be loads of fun.

Not.

But the good thing is that I'm on-call this week and my phone didn't ring once after 6:00 last night.

One thing that was strange, apart from the utter weirdness of having her walk into the place on a night when I happened to be there, was this scene that popped into my head.

At one point during the whatever you want to call it, I realized that I was thinking about doing something. Fantasizing actually, about doing something.

To her.

Like grabbing her and kissing the hell out of her.

It wasn't because I felt particularly attracted to her. Though the passion with which she tore at my heart was certainly admirable. it wasn't enough to make me forget the facts that (a) She's married I think, (b) She's not my type anyway, and (c) It would have started the biggest shitstorm in history.

So I didn't want to do things to her because of a desire for her. It was because I knew that, with our tongues fighting for supremacy inside her mouth, she'd have to shut up for a while.

That's the subject of some SPAM I got today.

I have no idea what my zwinky might be, and I don't think I want to know.

Sadly, that was the highlight of my day. I did manage to kill one of the servers at work. I think that it was justifiable homicide, but I have to await final judgment from the jury of my coworkers. We'll see.

Other than those two things, that's it. I think my brain is empty.

Today is moving day at work.

They're taking my entire (IT) department and moving us downtown, and today is my team's turn.

I've been looking forward to the move, for various reasons, not the least of which is that I'll be closer to MixedSignalGirl. So we could do lunch or whatever if we ever get our collective shit together.

I'm not exactly holding my breath though.

Anyway, I'm still sitting at home right now. No sense rushing in to work at the crack of 8:00 when none of my stuff has been moved to the new building yet. So I've been working on some security documentation. It's just incredibly fun stuff. Not.

Remember a while back when I wrote that my wants were wandering aimlessly because my needs had been met? The problem with that is that I knew my wants would fixate on the first thing they bumped in to. Yeah, well that's happened now. It kinda sucks, but I'm used to it.

I'm not much of a poetry person, but I really love this snippet from Rupert Brooke.

When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,

I need a really good slaking.

That's the subject of some SPAM I got today.

Now I don't work in sales, but I really don't think insulting a potential customer from the get-go is the best approach.

Plus, I'm neither of those things.

Look, I know that I look good in these jeans. I can't help it, and it's not the reason I'm wearing them.

I paid my five bucks so I could wear jeans today because it's comfortable, not so I could be ogled by every woman that sees me.

And it's not just the ogling, it's the flirting. The incessant attempts to start conversations.

Yes, I know it's raining outside.

No, your weather report will not make me love you for your firm grasp of current events.

Yes, I'm moving to the new building next Thursday.

No, I'm not taking you with me.

Yes, it's finally Friday.

Sorry, but I already have plans for the entire weekend.

You're all acting like giggling schoolgirls, and I'd like you to stop.

I have work to do.

I'm finding myself terribly concerned about a friend of mine. Much more concerned than I should be, given the rudimentary and intangible nature of our friendship. More of an acquaintanceship, really.

But still, I am concerned. I wish there was something I could say or do. Not to make her pain go away, as that's not my place in her life, but something to let her know...

...that she's really not alone.

But there's a problem.

I'm a guy.

She's a girl.

Anything that I say or do is going to be misinterpreted. A smile will become a wink. A simple conversation will become selfish manipulation. A compassionate hug will become a passionate embrace.

So I do nothing except sit here and write this crap, and try to send calming thoughts her way.

It's certainly not enough, but anything more would be too much.

Today after finishing up some work crap, I slept all damn day.

I hate it when I do this. Especially on a day that, on the outside at least, is as beautiful as this one is.

To be fair, I didn't get nearly enough sleep last night. I didn't get home from SassyGirl's party until after 3:00, then I had to work at 8:00. So I was tired.

But, problem is, being tired is only half the reason I slept the day away. Maybe not even half. Maybe it's no reason at all.

Maybe it's just an excuse.

An excuse for what?

Even if I knew, I don't think I'd allow myself to say. Not to myself, and not to this journal.

...limiting the amount of hotness that any one girl can exude.

That is all.

Well this is kind of interesting, this image that's been stuck in my head since about noon EDT on Wednesday.

I am apparently much more disgusting and typical and hormonal than I thought I was.

Three or four years ago I had a yellowjacket nest in my yard. I went to the hardware store and bought some foamy shit to kill them. I sprayed their hole. They died.

That's the way it's supposed to work.

This year, this year it's just a teeny bit different.

This year I had four nests. Two in my front yard and two in my back yard.

The two back yard nests seem to have been normal ones. Those bees seem to have been killed with a single application of the foamy shit.

The two front yard nests are occupied by some kind of super yellowjacket. I've sprayed each of those nest with the foamy shit four times. The dude that mows my lawn has sprayed each of these nests at least twice. We're talking an entire can with each spraying.

I guess I should say the dude that used to mow my lawn because he hasn't mowed the front yard in two months. He got sick and tired of being stung. I don't blame him a bit.

I figure that these front yard bees are shampooing with the foamy shit, or brushing their teeth with it. Do bees even have hair and/or teeth? I doubt it. But whatever, they're sure not dying from the stuff.

So today I went back to the hardware store and asked them for something would kill yellowjackets. The dweeb pointed to the cans of foamy shit. I said, "No, the bees in my yard use that stuff to clean their contacts or something. They're immune to it."

So the dweeb called the manager over, and the manager recommended some non-foamy shit that's mostly for hornets. It's supposed to knock them right out of the air. I bought six cans.

I came home and pulled my truck up to one of the nests. I got to where I could clearly see down the hole of the nest. Then I rolled down my window, took a can of the non-foamy shit, and soaked that hole. Then I took another can and soaked it again.

Next, I drove over to the second, larger, nest. This one features a hole big enough that a small child could crawl in. I thought briefly about bribing a small child to go in there with a flyswatter, but alas, I'm fresh out of disposable children.

Back to plan A. Or maybe plan B - I think the foamy shit was plan A. Plan C is sell my house.

I was able to get almost one entire can sprayed into the hole before the super yellowjackets came streaming out of it. I rolled up my window as quickly as I could and I got the fuck out of there.

I drove up and down the road to throw the bees off my trail, then I pulled into my garage.

Just before I typed this I looked out my front door at that second nest. The bees are using the non-foamy shit to fill their new swimming pool. They're having a grand time.

Avery The Reverend: 22
Delirium Tremens: 22.4
Newcastle: 24
Me: 0

And I'm done.

Thanks to those of you who put up with me tonight.

It was fun.

My fucking hosting company has decided that it would be funny to have my email break.

Again.

Avery The Reverend: 22
Delirium Tremens: 11.2
Me: 0

What's wrong with you?

This does not compute.

Maybe you're gay.

I bet that's it.

I can't think of any other reason.

So tomorrow is an anniversary of sorts.

One of the few good ones.

After tomorrow, they'll all suck until December.

Reminders of death and desertion and deception and denial are what the Fall brings to me, but tomorrow is still Summer.

A wise man once asked, What is it about anniversaries? They really, when you think about it, hold no meaning at all. Whatever they signify, it's not happening now - it happened a year ago, or ten years ago. Whatever. Why should a date on a calendar receive special merit just because something once happened on that same date in the past?

I don't know why anniversaries get special attention, but sometimes I'm glad that they do. I'm glad that she remembers what tomorrow is.

Our anniversary.

Next up, we have the Oscar for Best Portrayal Of A Completely Normal Person Who Was Only Feeling Those Things That He Was Allowed To Feel Under The Circumstances And Who Was Also Most Definitely Not Having A Miniature Nervous Breakdown Every Time His Eyes Met Those Of A Certain Other Person Which Was Quite Fucking Often But Not Nearly As Often As He Would Have Liked.

And the Oscar goes to...

* DRUMROLL *

Me!

Yay for me!

I'm a little worried about a friend of mine tonight, just from something I think I might have heard.

I hope she's okay.

Now I'm off for five days.

That's the good news.

The bad news?

Same thing.

When I have nothing else to do, I tend to think. And that's always a bad idea for me.

Especially because I feel like I'm close to something. I mean, I'm right on the verge of something big. Problem is, I don't know what that thing might be.

So I expect, sometime over the next five days, I expect to spend some time thinking and trying to figure out why I've felt so strange lately. And then, once I think I know what that big thing looming on my horizon is, I'll do something.

Whether I do something to prevent it, or to help it along, I can't say just yet. Not until I know what it is.

All I know for sure is that whatever I do, it will be something stupid.

Yes or no? Fast or slow? Stay or go? Hide or show? Force or flow? Now or later?

I know, that breaks the pretty pattern.

So sue me.

These are some of the questions that occupy my mind these days.

There are no answers, only guesses.

And, if I get a single guess wrong, then there won't be any more questions.

Not ever.

It kinda sucks to be me, right about now.

I went once.

I don't know why.

Something to do I suppose.

It's not like I really expected to meet anyone special, even though that's what the brochures kept promising.

After all, anyone smart enough to be there would have been smart enough to stay the fuck away from me.

And so it was.

There were some pretty strange people there though.

Most of them were pretentious assholes.

I guess there wasn't any room left in their heads for social niceties.

Stolen from ella.

...but sometimes, no matter how strange a realization it may be and no matter how stupid you may feel when you admit it to yourself, sometimes The Beatles will turn out to have been right all along.

Stolen from gogo.

Generate your own at The Stephen Colbert "On Notice Board" generator page.

Actually, London is not calling, but that wouldn't nearly as clever a subject.

London is not even leaving any comments.

C'mon, London!

I don't bite.

Okay, this is funny.

Not.

eHarmony is based upon a complex matching system developed through extensive research with married couples. One of the requirements for successful matching is that participants fall within certain defined profiles. If we find that we will not be able to match a user using these profiles, we feel it is only fair to inform them early in the process.

We are so convinced of the importance of creating compatible matches to help people establish happy, lasting relationships that we sometimes choose not to provide service rather than risk an uncertain match.

Unfortunately, we are not able to make our profiles work for you. Our matching model could not accurately predict with whom you would be best matched. This occurs for about 20% of potential users, so 1 in 5 people simply will not benefit from our service. We hope that you understand, and we regret our inability to provide service for you at this time.

I will end this silence.

If I haven't heard from you by then, tomorrow morning I'm going to call you.

If you don't answer, I'm going to leave a voicemail asking you to call me.

If you haven't called back by the time I leave work, then I'm going to your house.

If you're not home, I'm going to wait for you for as long as it takes.

I need to tell you something.

I will end this silence.

Sunday morning KittenDamsel and I had breakfast at McDonalds, then I took a very quick shower. When I got out of the shower my cat Happy had her trapped on top of my bed. He was growling and hissing, but he's too fat to get on the bed himself. It was funny. To me, anyway.

The plan was for me to take KittenDamsel to get her car from the bar, but instead we ended up dicking around my house for a while. I gave her and Happy a proper introduction. I tried to find Nugget for a similar introduction, but that didn't work. That cat is a fuck of a good hider.

So we shot some pool and I showed her some trick shots.

Then we ended up going to this Clark State Forest place. I don't know why. It wasn't my idea. That place is haunted, after all. But we had fun. It was like a million degrees outside though, so even the easy hiking trails set up for wheelchairs and such were pretty strenuous.

It was a good time. I like KittenDamsel. I don't know if it's mutual though. I think I might be more of a big brother or father figure for her. The comic a couple of entries ago illustrates why I think that.

To be honest, I've probably got enough drama in my life already. Adding to it would probably be stupid and maybe even cruel.

Anyway, after we'd hiked about a million miles, we went to Red Lobster and had an early dinner, then I finally got around to taking her back to her car. Then I came home and slept like a dead person.

I like that one part, that section of skin between the navel and the top of the jeans. I really like the way it seems to curve outward before turning back toward the promised land.

I think that belly-shirts and low-rider jeans just might be the greatest inventions ever.

I took a short nap, and now I have a huge crease running across the side of my face. It's been there for an hour, and it shows no sign of fading.

So that's just great. Now I'm hideous on the outside, too.

Wow.

I can't believe how lucky I am.

A million closed doors.

And the one I knock on, that's the one that opens.

I want a mountain.

Yep, that's what I want.

Not my own personal mountain. That would be way too much responsibility. But I want to live by a mountain again.

(Image stolen from some USGS site)

I miss Mt. Rainier. Even though I could go for months without ever seeing it, I always knew that it was there. And, on those days when it would appear, it never failed to impress and inspire me.

There are no mountains here, in Southern Indiana.

It's kind of boring.

LaptopGirl once said something to me about The Grand Canyon being this gigantic hole that would suck the creativity out of everyone around it. That got me to thinking that maybe mountains would do the opposite. Maybe mountains exude creative energy.

Somebody should look into getting us a mountain.

I hate typos soooo much!

It's pretty ironic, then, that I'm the fucking king of typos.

Also, I hate whores.

August 20th can not get here quickly enough for me.

I want to go right now, and I don't want to come back until it's safe.

Today after work I sat at Rich O's having a couple of half-pints of NABC Jenever Rye (40). That first glass went down so well that I had a second.

Anyway, one of my so-called friends was there. This guy hadn't said a single word to me for well over a week, despite seeing me after work every day and on the weekend nights. I figured that I'd managed to piss him off too. Oh well.

But today, today on his way out he stopped and talked to me for a couple of minutes.

It really doesn't take much of a nudge, to swing me over to a good mood for a while. Not much of a nudge at all.

Well that was a crappy excuse for a nap. Nothing but bad dreams.

One of my friends got some shit at work for being openly gay. That's pretty fucked up. She's worked there for 10 years, and that's what I advised her to point out in response. I hate small-minded people.

Speaking of A/C, it's stopped working in my Intrepid. It was a very nice couple of weeks though. I'm supposed to take it back to the same garage tomorrow or Thursday so they can try something more permanent.

For the second day in a row, I forgot to switch my A/C back on when I left for work. This, of course sucks. It's 92 degrees in my house right now.

I was just now going to write that I saw SassyGirl at Rich O's after work, and that I had an NABC Artemsia (120). Then I was going to write that I gave SassyGirl a ride home and we talked and it was nice. I was probably going to write that I had a Blue Moon (270) at SassyGirl's house and that I got to pet her cat. I probably wasn't going to mention that SassyBoy was at Rich O's too, even though I should mention it because nobody had seen him in months.

Then, I think I was going to elaborate on how nice it was to see SassyGirl, especially to be able to spend time with just the two of us. If I'd written that, then I'd also have felt compelled to write that I have absolutely nothing against JauntyGirl at all (she's really nice and cool) but sometimes I just want to see my friends without their significant others there. I'd have written something about how I'm always a third wheel in those situations. Then, I might have started to allude to other friends that I rarely (or never) see without their significant others, but then I'd have thought about it, and decided against it because, you know, sometimes you just have to take what you can get and stop being such a baby.

Once I'd written about my day, I was going to struggle for quite a while about another topic that's been on my mind. I would have had this long drawn-out internal debate over whether or not I should even mention it at all. I think this would have been a tough decision, because it would certainly make for interesting writing, but it would also open up a big can of worms that would probably be best left closed. In the end, I was going to decide that it just wasn't worth the trouble.

In fact, I ended up deciding that writing about anything at all would require more effort than it was worth, so I ditched the whole plan and just went and watched some TV.

Yesterday was a pretty decent day. I actually left my basement and went out to shoot some pool. This was the first time I'd shot in a place other than my basement since January. It was also the first time I'd played an actual opponent since January.

So that was fun. My left leg is actually a little sore today. Need to work on my balance I guess.

On the way home I stopped at Taco Bell and grabbed a couple of chili cheese burritos. Shut up, I like them. I've liked them since they were called chilitos. Anyway, after I ate, I realized just how tired I was. It was 7:00 and I was too tired to even think about going out. So I wrote off my Saturday night and went to bed...

...and I couldn't sleep. My cat Buddy just would not allow it. So I went down to Rich O's.

The place was pretty empty, so I liked that. A bunch of strangers were in the living room, but I didn't feel like sitting there anyway. I grabbed my favorite seat at the island and ordered an NABC Artemsia (60).

There seemed to be a S.I.G.H. convention in the area. Several times girls would come into Rich O's proper, glance at me and the open stools around me, then veer around me to stand in the annex area. Whatever, whores.

MusicalHippyDude came and sat with me, and we were able to talk for a bit before we got interrupted. Then I managed to hurt said interrupter's feelings by picking up my shit and moving over to the (recently vacated) throne.

For the rest of the night I just sat and smoked and drank two more Artemsias (100). One note about that beer: None of the bartenders have any clue how to pronounce it. This may be an indicator that it's a stupid name for a beer. But that's just my opinion of the name. The beer itself is weird and yummy. Just like me.

(Note I've asked Roger, the owner of Rich O's, and he says it's ar-TEM-zee-uh.)

I also did something sneaky while nobody was looking. We'll see how that turns out.

After a while, LonerBoy came and sat with me, and we talked about various crap. He's going to Seattle, and I'm pretty jealous of that. I haven't been there since 2002.

Rich O's closed up early because it was so dead. LonerBoy and I went over to Jack's and I had a Blue Moon and wished I was about 20 years younger. It turned out that Jack's was where the S.I.G.H. convention was taking place.

The Blue Moon was a bad idea, and so I ended up staying at Jack's drinking Diet Coke until the wee hours of the morning, waiting for the alcohol to leave my body and talking with a bunch of girls from Logan's Roadhouse.

I'm a pretty stubborn guy sometimes. This stubbornness reveals itself in various ways. Like when I refuse to take a hint if I don't like what's being hinted at. Like when I'm completely wasting my time but I keep trying because I keep imagining that it could all be worth it in the end.

Friday night, it poured here. Floyd County got like 5 inches of rain in an hour. This is all my fault because I washed all three of my vehicles. It was raining so hard that the 20 yard sprint from my car to the GasNStuff left me completely soaked. I was wet for the rest of the night.

So I sloshed myself into Red Lobster. This is just more of my stubbornness. I was supposed to be in Indianapolis, but instead I was wasting my time back home, so I went to Red Lobster to make the night at least a little bit unusual.

The TV above the bar was nothing but weather reports. From the flash floods and the lightning. The sound was muted, so I can't be sure that they officially blamed me for all of it, but they probably did. Every fucking thing else that's ever happened is my fault, after all. Anyway, the TV was muted, but the closed-captioning was still on, but it's wasn't the text of the weather reports that was being displayed. It was instead the show that was supposed to be on at that time. That was kind of weird.

My food was good, as always. I like Red Lobster a lot. The waitress kept bugging me though. Asking if everything was okay. I said that it was, but I guess I wasn't convincing enough because then the manager came over and asked me the same question. I told him that the food was just fine, but that I kept getting interrupted by people asking me questions. He took the hint and everyone left me alone after that. I just make friends everywhere I go.

Next I went to Rich O's and sat with LibraryGirl and her friends for a while. I had myself an NABC Artemsia (40) and then a Rogue Smoke (250). I think there were people there and I think that I probably talked to some of them, but I'm sure that it was nothing important.

I'm craving a steak. Again. Must be some old age thing. Like I need meat to help make up for withering away.

So I'm at this place in New Albany called Tucker's. We used to come here, every now and then. The food is pretty good. The bartender is hot. Plus, there's something about the Guinness here. It's fucking yummy. Much better than it is anywhere else.

I'm having a Guinness, of course. A tall glass of frothy pleasure while I wait for my steak and my baked potato and my sautéed mushrooms. Not that the sides matter. It's all about the steak tonight. And the Guinness. And the hot bartender.

---

The red room at Rich O's is fucked up. Some plumbing problem. So what little crowd there is has, um, crowded into the rest of Rich O's proper. I don't care though. I'm not even officially here.

They've got two new beers on tap. Both seem intriguing to me.

New Albanian Jenever Rye(10)

(draft) Dirty gold. Zero fizz. Has a sweet aroma, if that makes any sense. Flavor is quite sweet with some odd indescribable undertones. Pretty good, but dangerous because the alcohol is very well hidden. No bitterness.

8:20
They're playing fucking Johnny Cash again. I never had an opinion about him at all, but now I hate him because they play the dead fucker so damn often in this place.

8:23
Great, now the fuckhead on the sofa is singing along to the music. I hate him.

New Albanian Artemsia Ale(10)

(draft) Clear brown. Zero fizz. Smells like a pine tree - must be the mugwort. The flavor is very weird, and very good. I like this a lot. Tastes like it should have more alcohol than it does.

8:45
Piss time.

8:55
Another half-pint of the Artemsia (20).

9:00
The strangers just left the other end of the bar. I would move down there, but it seems hard.

9:06
Some guy from the future just took the right-hand barstool. He seemed upset when his Upland Wheat didn't come with a citrus wedge.

9:08
PotatoGirl is having trouble pouring Pilsner Urquel because it's so foamy. This has prompted me to write a new advertising slogan for that beer. Pilsner Urquel: A lot of effort for a little flavor.

9:15
I had a brilliant idea for a series of 'blog entries yesterday. But it seems hard, so I probably won't do it.

9:16
The guy from the future has gone. The time portal must be about to close.

9:18
Piss time.

9:25
Ordering another half-pint of the Jenever (20).

9:35
I am sooooooooooooo glad that I deleted her number from my phone. Really.

9:37
Fine, maybe I'm stupid, but at least my stupidity lets me do the right thing. Most idiots have no excuse at all.

9:20
Bubbles is here.

9:40
PotatoGirl wants me. She needs to get in line.

9:45
This Artemsia stuff is yummy. That means that it will never be here again, so I'd better drink up. Not tonight though.

Well that was nice. I'd expected to hear from her attorney before I ever heard from her.

---

I've got a cyst or a conjoined twin or something growing on the back of neck. It's actually impeding my ability to turn my head without pain. When this grows big enough to become self-aware I just hope it isn't a jerk.

---

Yesterday some guy at Rich O's that nobody ever saw before bought two DaveFest shirts. I made it a point to stop by his table and thank him for his support.

---

That's all I've got for now. Thought there'd be more, but nope.

These things were outside my window when I got up this morning. There were actually about twice this many. There was another adult and another half-dozen chicks.

The reason it's so out of focus is that I took this picture through the glass in my window, and the glass messed up my camera's auto-focus. By the time I figured out how to focus them, they were in the bushes.

I think they're turkeys, but that's just a guess.

I always manage to forget something every time I go on a trip.

This time the thing that I forgot was the A/C power adapter for my laptop.

Right now, my laptop tells me it's got 3 hours and 36 minutes of battery life left.

I've got to try to stretch that out until Tuesday morning when I leave Cleveland.

I should be able to do it, but it will be tough. I won't be able to keep up with my favorites like I'm used to doing.

Anyway, I'm having fun so far, and I'll probably post something tomorrow.

plant
n.

4. A person or thing put into place in order to mislead or function secretly, especially:
   a. A person placed in a group or situation to influence behavior.
   b. A person stationed in a given location as a spy or observer.
   c. A person who will pretend to be an ally to solicit incriminating evidence.

I was thinking about writing something today, but I changed my mind. If any of you are really curious, you can just go back and read some of my old shit. The thing that I was going to write about, I'm sure that I've already written about it before.

---

So on Monday I got this email from The Luxor in Las Vegas telling me about some special room rates they were offering me because I'm so awesome. It was $79 per night, which seems like a pretty good price to me. Since I've been missing Las Vegas recently, I went online to see if I could maybe take a trip there in August. Yay! August in Las Vegas! But I don't think it's going to happen because, while the room rates are good, the cheapest flights I could find were $8,000,000 or something like that. I think I'll have to wait until November as I'd originally planned so work will pay for the trip.

---

I think that I'm probably going to be miserable for the rest of the Summer. Maybe for even longer. I don't really see any way out of this funk. I am starting to get a little excited about my trip to Cleveland this weekend, but I doubt that even this pseudo-good mood will last very long.

---

Dammit, I really wish she could have been here for DaveFest.

---

I kinda feel like everybody around me is just standing in my way, blocking me from where I'm supposed to be going. This irritates me. Mostly because it's an illusion. There's no place to go.

---

I used to be annoyed by people trying to make me feel better when it was obvious that their only real goal was to feel more comfortable around me. Now I'm annoyed by people because they're being nice to me, but it's nothing but another illusion. Don't be nice to me. You're not the one. So stop. Just stop distracting me. I do not want to be your good deed of the day. Let me be miserable for a while. I've earned it.

---

My sleep schedule is upside-down again. It's kinda nice. It seems like there's more solitude after midnight. Instead of just having the house to myself, it seems like I've got the whole world.

---

I've deleted another girl's number from my phone. It really bothers me that it came to this. Not that there was ever any real potential there, but it was fun to pretend for a while. Now my messages are ignored, and I don't trust myself to stop trying, so I deleted her number.

---

Seriously, I don't want to do this any more. I'm sick of putting on a brave face and forcing a smile.

I finally shipped those DaveFest shirts you ordered. They should arrive Wednesday.

There, now I've accomplished three things today.

Firstly, I've let you know that I'm not completely useless - I'm just a procrastinator.

Secondly, I've managed to sneak in yet another advertisement for DaveFest shirts.

Thirdly, I've written an entry in my journal. This counts. Yes, it does.

It's win-win-win!

It could have been twice, it could have been fifty times. When your mom's heart stops beating, you don't really bother keeping an accurate count.

That last night, that last night before that last morning, they'd called. They'd called and they'd told us about the first time her heart had stopped. They'd told us that we might want to come in. Just in case, you know.

Mom had been in the hospital for over a month, and had been unconscious for at least a week. The doctors and the nurses, they kept trying to prepare us for what was going to happen. One nurse in particular had been a friend of Mom's for thirty years - even she admitted that there was no hope.

But we didn't listen to any of it. Death was something that happened to other people's mothers. Not to ours. Ours was going to wake up, and she was going to be okay, and she was going to go home and everything was going to be fine again.

That last night, before that last morning, they called. And Dad and I went in to the hospital. And we waited. When we could, we went into the room where Mom lay. They'd given her a private room in Intensive Care, so that was nice. We went into her room and we watched the number that tracked her heartbeats. We watched that number shrink and shrink and shrink and fucking shrink.

Then we'd watch it plummet to zero, and the doctors and the nurses would usher us back into the waiting room.

And we'd wait some more.

Sometime in the early morning, about 3:00 I think, the nurse came and told us that it wouldn't be long. She said that if there was anyone that we wanted to call, we should do it right away.

It could have been twice, it could have been a hundred times. When your mother is dying, and you're trying desperately to let your sisters know before it's too late, you don't really bother keeping an accurate count.

Dina's phone rang and rang and rang. It was after 6:00 when my brother-in-law finally answered the phone.

"Mike," I said. "It's about to happen. You need to bring everyone here."

Timing is everything.

It really is just like in the movies. You sit in a room, and you wait for somebody to come and give you an update. Always before, it had been a nurse, or a doctor. Always before, it had been one of them, but never two. Never ever two.

At 6:30 or so, two people left my Mom's room and walked toward Dad and me. I wonder now, were there two of them because there were two of us?

The nurse was crying. I'll always remember that the nurse was crying.

I don't remember what they said to us. I mean, I remember the gist of it, but not the details. When people tell you that your mother has died, you don't really bother memorizing their words.

I remember sitting down. No, scratch that. I remember a hand reaching down from above and pushing me down.

I remember my dad, after the doctor has finished telling us. Dad said, "So she's dead then." It wasn't a question. It was a simple statement of fact. It was also a silent scream that will haunt me forever. Some things you don't get over, and that was one of those things. My father, upon hearing that the only woman he'd ever loved was gone, my father kept himself in check. For me, and for my sisters, he stayed strong.

I remember that he put his hand on my shoulder, and that I put my hand on top of his, and that we just sat like that for the longest time. We sat that way until the doctor and the nurse left us, until they left us to go back into Mom's room so they could disconnect the wires and the tubes and do whatever else needed to be done. After a patient has died.

My sisters arrived too late. Dad and I were standing out in the hallway when they rounded the corner. They were actually smiling. Forced smiles, to be sure, but smiles nonetheless. That was the last time I'd see smiles for a very long time.

Somehow, somehow we managed to tell them that Mom had already died. Dad told Dina, and I told Neisha. Hell, I didn't even know Neisha, and there I was telling her that her life would never be the same again. It was hard, of course it was hard. But I did it. I did it for Dad, who was putting his own grief on hold so that he'd be better able to help his children.

You know what I wish? I wish that I believed in the afterlife. I wish that I believed that Mom could have been there in that hallway with us on that morning. She would have been so proud of Dad.

I know I was.

I still am.

I didn't write this. I just followed a link from fark.com.

1. Avoid alliteration. Always.
2. Prepositions are not words to end sentences with.
3. Avoid cliches like the plague. (They're old hat.)
4. Employ the vernacular.
5. Eschew ampersands & abbreviations, etc.
6. Parenthetical remarks (however relevant) are unnecessary.
7. It is wrong to ever split an infinitive.
8. Contractions aren't necessary.
9. Foreign words and phrases are not apropos.
10. One should never generalize.
11. Eliminate quotations. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "I hate quotations. Tell me what you know."
12. Comparisons are as bad as cliches.
13. Don't be redundant; don't use more words than necessary; it's highly superfluous.
14. Be more or less specific.
15. Understatement is always best.
16. One-word sentences? Eliminate.
17. Analogies in writing are like feathers on a snake.
18. The passive voice is to be avoided.
19. Go around the barn at high noon to avoid colloquialisms.
20. Even if a mixed metaphor sings, it should be derailed.
21. Who needs rhetorical questions?
22. Exaggeration is a billion times worse than understatement.

I am attempting to broil a steak.

This should be funny.

If I don't die in a fire somehow.

...that I'm a decent person.

Not perfect, by any stretch of the imagination. But I'm basically a good and kind person.

This is a huge problem.

Women do not want decent and kind. Women want dangerous and callous and unpredictable. Women want someone that needs fixing.

And, if they don't find a flaw right away, they'll poke and prod and dig until they do find something wrong.

The problem is, the problem is that the further they have to dig to find the problem, the harder it will be to fix.

And some things are beyond repair.

I suppose this entry from Roger's 'blog explains it:

The three-tier blues strike again.

So, tonight DaveFest enters its third weekend, and it does so once again without the beer that, for me, was pretty much the point of the whole thing.

A part of me realizes that this delay is a good thing. I think I've been quite honest with myself when I've said, "Self, when the Rogue Chocolate Stout goes on tap, that's all I'm going to drink. All those other beers will fade into irrelevance once my dark master reappears."

This way, frustrating as it's been, this way I've at least been able to drink a lot of my other favorite beers. It's been a time of tough choices for me, seeing all those yummy beers on the board at the same time. It's been tough, but it's been wonderful.

My Internet connection has been up and down for most of the day. I'll probably type this shit up and then not be able to publish it. Supposedly the guy is coming here tomorrow to diagnose and hopefully fix whatever the problem is.

---

I have absolutely nothing to write about and, even if I did, it wouldn't be any good.

---

I keep dreaming about Las Vegas. Probably because this is the longest I've gone without visiting there in several years. I need to get out there.

---

I seem to have developed this severe aversion to couples. I don't really think about it, but I'm miserable around them. I suppose this is my subconscious giving me a hard time about being alone.

---

The DaveFest thing is exhausting. What I'd like to do, one of these nights, is just sit at the island or at the bar and do nothing except glare at people. But I can't, because I'm the star of the show or something.

---

Yesterday I bought a bag of pistachios, then I ate the whole bag in about three hours. Pistachios must have the highest ratio of ugliness to deliciousness of any food out there. Plus, they're a pain to eat.

---

I guess that's about it.

How is it, I wonder, that I can eat six White Castle cheeseburgers and two orders of fries right before I go to sleep, then wake up six hours later and be starving to death?

I can't eat now though. I've got to connect in to work and get some shit done.

Maybe after that's done I'll go grab some breakfast.

I didn't say this would be an interesting entry.

Fine.

I've waited long enough.

My voicemails and emails have sat unanswered for almost two weeks. I said that I would not try again, and I haven't. The ball's in your court, but you're not there to pick it up.

Fine. I'll play by myself for a while. Maybe even play with myself for a while.

Ha ha ha.

I think the thing that shocked me the most about the way you left is that, at first, it seemed that you must not have a very high opinion of me as a person. For what you asked me to do was something that only a complete asshole would do. Surely, I thought, surely you knew me better than that.

But the more I've thought about it, the more I've come to realize that it's not my character that you've misjudged - it's my intelligence.

You think I'm fucking stupid, don't you?

Well, I'm not.

Sure, it took me a few days, but I did figure it out.

You asked me to prove my feelings for you, but the proof that you demanded was impossible. And you knew it.

Why would you do that? Why would you issue an ultimatum that could never be satisfied?

It's simple, really.

You asked me for the impossible because you knew that my refusal would give you an excuse. An excuse to walk away. An excuse to keep the blame for our failures on me. An excuse behind which you could hide your own fears and insecurities.

It was a good plan. If you're twelve years old.

I'd take a bullet for you, but I will not shoot an innocent person. You knew that all along.

Look, I know all about fear and insecurity. I've pretty much mastered them both over the past couple of years. So I understand the things that race through your head. You waited for so long for me to say those words to you. You were surprised. You were skeptical and you were afraid.

I don't blame you a bit for your concerns.

I just wish you'd have told me, instead of playing this stupid game. I thought we were better than stupid games.

I got this stupid premonition in my head last night, and slept fitfully because of it. Just one of those things that would be pretty cool if it happened, but it's so unlikely that I could never be disappointed if it doesn't happen.

That's the best kind of premonition, I think.

---

I dreamed about a pretty good movie with C. Thomas Howell and Jennifer Aniston. The theme song of the movie was a country song, and in the dream it was one of the best songs ever. Now I'm sitting here at my desk with the song running through my head, and I realize that it's one of the stupidest songs ever. Still can't get the fucker out of my head though.

---

I also dreamed about how I was working with some cops on some case or other, and there were pod people involved. They blew up part of a building to cover up the fact that MixedSignalGirl's mother had been replaced by a pod person. Then I had to put her cat in her car so I wouldn't have to carry it around while I searched the rubble for evidence. And later some bitch wouldn't let me back into the parking garage because I didn't have a pass. After I told her about Puddles being in the car she was nicer about it, but she still wouldn't let me in.

It was all very intense and dramatic. The whole thing had something to do with these transistors that had been used on a certain type of computer cabling back in the 1970s. The same transistors, it turned out, had also been used in these doohickeys that attached to soda cans to keep them cold.

Damn pod people. I hate them so much.

---

I was hung-over all day yesterday, so I didn't do anything but work and watch TV.

---

There's a chance that the Rogue Chocolate Stout and the Rogue Smoke will be on at DaveFest tonight. I'm afraid to ask though because it'll put me in a bad mood if they're not available yet.

I wish we were still friends.

I'd mail her a t-shirt.

She would like it.

If we were still friends.

The DaveFest T-Shirts will be available tomorrow!

Yay!

Please buy one. Here's what's on the front:

And then on the back is a list of all the DaveFest beers.

Because these are arriving almost a week later than was originally planned, I'm not expecting them to sell nearly as well as I'd hoped.

Again, please buy one. I'm selling them at cost (rounded up to the nearest dollar) and for Internet orders I'll pay shipping.

So, small, medium, large, and extra-large are going for $10.00. Size XXL is $11.00, and size XXXL is $12.00.

Fuck, I'll even sign the thing if you want.

For every shirt that doesn't get sold, I figure that will equal one day that I'll have to eat dirt to help make up for what I'm spending on these things.

I don't like to eat dirt, so please buy a shirt.

There, I even wrote you a poem.

Slept from 8:30 'til 5:30. I don't think I missed anything.

I guess I'm going to Chicago for a day or two in July. Some email archiving thingy. No baseball during that trip unless I stay an extra night. I probably won't make that decision for a while. First I have to decide if I'm going to drive or fly up there.

Man I'm bored.

This has been discussed, and approved.

From now on, SassyGirl's girlfriend TacoBell will be referred to in this journal as JauntyGirl.

That is all.

You know what would have made my Friday night better than it was?

Me neither.

I guess the stress is part of the fun, too.

I'm not really sure how to break this to you.

I guess I'll just come out and say it.

The DaveFest shirts aren't going to be ready for at least a week.

Now, calm down please. The Sun will still rise and set tomorrow. It will probably continue to do so this weekend when DaveFest begins on schedule.

So, after several emails, I think I've got the quantities correct. For the initial order anyway. Any subsequent orders will, quite frankly, be a pain in the ass and I can't guarantee that they'll even happen.

I'm disappointed, of course. I was really looking forward to seeing my likeness adorn the chests of friends and strangers alike this weekend. It would have been surreal and sublime.

But alas, it's not meant to be. Not just yet.

I'm told that the shirts will be ready by next Friday, in time for the final wave of DaveFest when the Rogue beers go on tap.

For those of you holding non-refundable tickets to Louisville for this weekend, let me apologize. Let me also assure you that the trip will still be worthwhile. In the end, it's really about the beer.

In silent protest of this atrocity, my beautiful female readers should feel free to attend the festival shirtless.

Well that last entry was clearly crap.

Oh well. Can't be helped now. Google has it in its grasp.

So, in an effort to show some semblance of normality, I present this entry.

I've used that line, or one very similar to it, at least three times now. I like the way it reads. Makes it seem like something important may be coming. Kind of like when a woman says, "Oh, this old thing? I just threw something on." And then she looks totally hot and stuff.

Not. This. Time.

Anyway, yesterday started out okay.

I watched the first twelve hours or so of the 24 first season DVDs. I'd forgotten what an asshole Tony was in the beginning, and what a useless brat Kim was. It's a good show.

Kiefer Sutherland is cool as fuck.

At 4:00 or so I drove to the other side of the Moon, otherwise known as Salem Indiana, to feed my sister's cats. I forget where she went. Some Renaissance Faire I think.

My sister Neisha has a shitload of cats. I can use that word in its slang sense as well as its literal one, the latter because when you get that many cats sharing a single litterbox it's - well, it's a shitload.

She's got one new kitten that might be a bit of an asshole, but it's a kitten so it's cute. It was also one of the only cats that didn't seem to be scared of me. Even E-Coli or whatever his name is seemed skittish about me being there. That cat used to just love me, and would happily shred the skin on my forearms at the slightest provocation.

Oh yeah, and Gleelore was also glad to see me.

After I'd cleaned the litter box, I spent a few fruitless minutes trying to decipher Neisha's feeding instructions. In the end I just kept dumping food into plates and making sure that all of the cats got something to eat. This turned out to be no small feat, because the kitten was, as I said, a bit of an asshole.

After I left Neisha's I drove to my other sister's house. Dina was, for some reason that I cannot quite fathom, hosting a graduation party for the son of a friend. This would be Hell for me, as the only thing I can think of that would be more annoying than a bunch of screaming teenagers would be a bunch of screaming teenagers that I never saw before in my life.

But, Dina has always been the hostess of our little group. Plus, she's got a pool.

But I didn't go to Dina's for the party.

I went to see her new kitten.

It's a tiny thing, only a few weeks old. Its mother abandoned it, and all of its siblings died. I hope this one grows to be big and strong because Dina is obviously quite attached to it already.

Also at the party were a bunch of people, some that I knew, and some that I didn't. I left fairly quickly as I had a date.

---

After my date disintegrated, I was left alone at The Pub in Louisville's Fourth Street Live district. I guess I could have gone home, but a part of me was thinking that the whole episode might have been some kind of sick joke. I half-expected Allen Funt and MixedSignalGirl to walk in and point out the hidden cameras and then everybody would have a good laugh.

Is Allen Funt even alive anymore?

So I stayed. I stayed and I had myself a couple of yummy Newcastles (1980). I would have had another one except the bartender told me that I was better off and that, "That girl isn't that pretty anyway." So I left her a $.01 tip and went next door to The Hard Rock.

At The Hard Rock, I had myself a Guinness (1239) in a souvenir glass, and I watched videos for a while, then I came home.

---

I did try to call her. I got voicemail.

I tried again this morning. I got voicemail.

I won't try again.

Something has happened.

Something most decidedly not good.

I sit here today trying not to think about this choice that I've been given. Not that it's much of a choice. I already know what my decision is. I only had to think about it for maybe two seconds after it was presented to me.

I know what I'll do. I'll do what's right. Not right for me, and not right for her, and not right for us. But what's right nonetheless.

So, I said the words.

I said the words and it wasn't enough. She wanted proof.

I cannot prove that I love her. Not the way she wants.

But I can, I can prove something else.

I can prove that, at my core, I am a good person.

She should have already known that.

She shouldn't need proof.

I just remembered.

I'm supposed to be freaking out.

I guess I should get started.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Went and got my haircut today, and HaircutLady told me about how she'd taken six puppies into the vet this morning to get wormed and to have their first vaccinations.

She loaded them back into the carrier and brought them home.

By the time she got home all six puppies were dead.

This is hopefully the saddest thing I hear about today.

She had her son stick one of the puppies in her freezer so the cause of death can be determined. I suggested that she might want to consider a different vet to perform the autopsy.

Poor puppies!

I see that, as of this writing, I'm number 6 (out of 2,220,000) in the google results for the search term drunken rambling.

They keep saying on the radio how they're hopeful that Barbaro can have a career as a stallion.

Having held that job for a while, I can say that it's not all it's advertised to be. And I can't imagine that mares are much less demanding than human women.

Also, wouldn't the offspring of a horse that shatters its leg in three places, simply because it was running, be worth about the same as, I dunno, something else that's obviously useless?

I'm just saying.

There are maybe three people on Earth that can hurt my feelings.

I'm one, and neither of the others are you.

So you can keep playing your little game if you want, but only if you really enjoy making an ass out of yourself.

I hate that commercial.

You know, the one where that chick asks about windows that her uncle bought five years ago for $189. She wants to know how much they are now, and she's told that they're still $189.

She splashes her panties she's so excited.

What a fucking stupid bitch.

What she doesn't seem to realize is that (a) her uncle got ripped off, and (b) she's about to get ripped off.

If the fucking things were so overpriced five years ago that they're still the same price, then why does she find it reasonable to assume that said price is now all of a sudden a good one?

It's like they told her, "Sure we robbed people for years, but you're just in time for this new honest-price thing we're trying. It's your lucky day!"

I hate her. I hope she buys a zillion of the damn windows and then has no money left for crack and has to suck the assholes of homeless people just to get something to eat and she has to blow old men on holiday from the old folk's home for spare change so she can buy more crack every six months or so.

I have the weirdest alarm clock ever.

Normal alarm clocks don't always work with me. I still manage to sleep through them far too often.

For a while I was able to use the alarm function in my cellphone. So great was my fear that I'd miss a call from you know who, any noise whatsoever coming from that phone would find me springing out of bed. So I set the alarm noise to the same ring as the incoming call noise.

But after a zillion years of disappointment, I started sleeping through that noise as well.

Lately, and when I say lately I mean for the last several weeks and maybe even months, I've come to rely on a novel new way to know when it's time to get up. At least on the weekends. On weekdays I seem to be on my own.

What happens on the weekends is that, 700 miles away from me, a girl writes me an email. She writes me an email, and I wake up.

Doesn't seem like it would be possible, does it? I mean, even if she was really pounding the shit out of those keys I shouldn't be able to detect it from more than maybe 30 yards or so. Certainly not 700 miles.

I don't know how it works. I just know that it does. When my friend RockGirl sends me an email, I'm up within 5 minutes of when she hits the send button. Sometimes it's 5 minutes before, so that gives me time to get myself a drink and take a piss and shake some of the cobwebs out of my head. Sometimes it's 5 minutes after and so I postpone those usual morning activities until after I've read the message.

It's a nice way to wake up, that's for sure.

...and I have proof.

After I got home from Madison this afternoon, after I finished my dinner, I went downstairs to shoot some pool.

And I tripped over this:

Luckily, I seem to have killed it by tripping over it. Otherwise I'd have had to move out of my house.

I dropped the pool ball on it just in case.

Yep, it's dead.

Now I have to find my shovel so I can dispose of the thing.

Go here! Read this!

Okay, so a few more choices have fallen off the list, but Roger has made up for those losses, and also inspired me nearly to giggles, by adding Newcastle to the list.

Yay!

Today, after work, the Sun was shining.

But that's not all!

When I got into my truck, it was very warm inside.

Almost hot actually!

That was the first time I've been warm in a couple of weeks.

It felt so good that, for a moment or two, I thought about peeling down and molesting myself right there in the truck.

But then I remembered where I was.

There's probably a corporate policy against that sort of thing.

I guess I'm just writing for the fuck of it now.

I overdid my after-work nap, and now it's almost 2:00 AM and I'm probably up for the rest of the night.

Gotta do something, may as well write.

For those of you reading this at barenada.com, you may or may not know that I duplicate my 'blog over at barenada.journalspace.com. Well, that site has been down since Friday morning. Some kind of hard drive crash is what they claim, but I don't buy it. What I think happened is that this chick's new profile picture melted the hard drive.

It's that hot.

Anyway, today after work I stopped by Rich O's and had a small Cone Smoker (1670) and a small Smithwick's (736) while I talked with Roger about DaveFest. It's looking like all of the beers I selected will be available except for the Avery Old Jubilation, so that's cool. I was expecting six taps but it's looking like there'll be eleven.

The t-shirts are still a go I guess. I met the artist the other day and I'm expecting him to contact me again about designs and colors. Or maybe not. Maybe he'll just wing it. He's the artist after all. We're going to order a couple of dozen shirts, and I suppose we can order more if we need to. I really have no idea what kind of interest there'll be.

I'll be at Rich O's both nights of DaveFest's opening weekend, June 2nd and 3rd. This will get me into trouble with my family. Maybe when their favorite hangout decides to honor them with their own festival they'll understand.

Anybody ever have one of these Asian salads from McDonald's?

It looks yummy!

A while ago, I mentioned that the board outside the New Albanian brewery listed their ConeSmoker beer, but no date.

I figured that this was done to annoy me.

Back on April 27th Roger, the owner of the place, wrote this in his blog entry about an ale festival to be held that weekend:

As NABC's contribution to the fest, and as befits our commitment to "go high, or go home," Brewmeister Jesse Williams is taking a few gallons each of our Hoptimus (Double IPA), Thunderfoot (Cherried Imperial Stout) and a special preview of the this year's edition of ConeSmoker.

If you've never been to Rich O's you may not know this. Besides the main beer board out front, there's another board in the back. This second board is for the bartenders. It lists which beers are on which taps, and how many kegs of that beer are left in stock. It also lists which beer is scheduled to be up next on a given tap.

I've gotten into the habit of checking this secondary beer board for my information, mainly because I can read it from Rich O's proper without having to go out front where all the idiots are.

Last night, this is what I saw when I looked at that board.

Okay, I guess that's a pretty shitty picture.

What it says, down at the bottom, in a box labeled S7 I think, is ConeSmoker.

I immediately ran out front to make sure that I hadn't missed ConeSmoker being listed out there. Nope, it wasn't there.

So I asked the bartender, "Hey, what's the deal with having ConeSmoker on your board back there? Does that mean it's on and I'm wasting my brain cells on Smithwick's?"

The bartender assured me that it was not on tap.

So my questions for Roger are:

Why is it listed on your employees' board?

Why is it not available if this tap S7 is otherwise open?

Why must you tease me like this?

I was just looking at my server logs and noticed the following referrer:

http://www.brewersofindianaguild.com/events.html

DaveFest is listed!

Yay!

That loud popping sound you hear may be my head exploding.

Great minds think alike, or so they say.

And, every now and then, a mediocre mind manages to think like a great mind.

That last part is just something I added myself. I don't think that they say it.

Whoever they are.

Anyway, I had this brilliant idea for an entry. I had it somewhat outlined in my head, and I had some fairly decent ideas for how I'd flesh out that outline. How I'd run with that idea. How I'd expand that idea, and expound that idea.

It would have been great, if I do say do myself. And I do.

But noooooooooooooooo!

Somebody has already had the same idea, and she's done more in thirteen words than I could have done with a thousand.

So now, once again. I have nothing.

For the past nine days, I've been on-call for work.

What that means is that I get to try to do my normal job during the day, except that I get to drop everything to handle all of the emergencies that keep popping up. It also means that I get to have my phone ring at all hours of the night because of the emergencies that pop up then.

I went off-call at 5:00 this evening.

I'm so happy I could shit.

(continued)

I'll tell you what I wish. You won't be surprised.

I wish that I'd met MixedSignalGirl about six months earlier.

Because that way, see, my heart would already have been awakened, but it would not yet have imprinted itself on anyone. And by anyone I of course mean you know who.

Yes, I wish I'd met her earlier. Before it was too late. There was beautiful potential there. There really was.

I was sitting at Hooter's tonight waiting for my cousin Jeff to arrive and give me a ride home. He came in when I typed (to be continued) earlier.

Jeff and I sat and talked with each other and with the pretty bartender. It was good to see him. It was especially good to see him away from his usual haunt, which is the Hooter's in Jeffersonville. When Jeff's away from his normal hangout he's more like his old self.

Let's see, I ended up having a couple more Newcastles (1884) and a Diet Coke.

Obviously, I was in more of a mood to write earlier than I am right now.

At least I finished the thing.