There I am, cruising along with my life, appreciating people, sometimes even *gasp* liking people.

But then it happens. They say stuff or they do stuff, and I realize - I've been dealing with one of those people all along. They made me feel like a fool, because I never even suspected that they were one of those people until it was too late. I was already emotionally invested.

Those fucking people, I hate them so much. Always saying that stuff and doing those things. I don't know how they can even stand to be around themselves, let alone expect others to tolerate their presence.

Those people suck. I think I'd wish they would all just die, but I'm afraid that might me too mean of a wish. So, instead, I just wish all those people would go away. Maybe go live on a fucking island, far far away, somewhere with others of their kind.

As long as I never had to see or talk to one of those people again as long as I lived, I think I'd be pretty happy.

Sometimes I say things or, more rarely, do things. Things that might not be totally selfless. Things that, on the surface at least, aren't obviously bad, but that are still at least a little bit suspect.

Why did he just say that? people might ask.

What does he mean? people might wonder.

What's he doing now? people might question.

I think it's usually subconscious for me, when I do some of the things I do, and say some of the things I say. I mean, I don't hardly ever intend to do/say these things - they just happen. And then, once they've happened, I'm fucking glad that they did.

I was thinking tonight about certainty.

Some synonyms: assurance, certitude, confidence, conviction, positiveness, surety

Some antonyms: ambiguity, doubt, hesitation, questionableness, tergiversation

It seems to me that we all go through our lives with an almost unbearable amount of uncertainty. Our jobs, our families, our friends, our lovers - none are open books. All harbor secrets or, if not really secrets, at least knowledge that hasn't been uncovered. Questions that haven't been answered or even, in many cases, asked.

Will this last?

What does that mean?

Have I blown it?

What just happened?

Sometimes, I do things or say things. Things that, I hope, either reduce or, ideally, eliminate uncertainty about the way that I feel. And why I feel the way that I feel. About the way that I intend and expect to always feel, forever and ever.

Purposeful or not, intentional or not, planned or not, these things that I sometimes do and say - they all have at their core the one thing that's the most important to me as I struggle to keep my head above water through these turbulent times.

They are all the absolute truth.

If, for example, I say that I always want to see a certain person then that's exactly what it means. There's no ambiguity in the word always. It means what it means, Weird and unsettling as it may be, it's still the absolute truth. It's still a certainty.

I've spent so much time without any certainty about the things that are most important to me. I hate hate hate fucking hate the thought of some people being uncertain as to my intentions, or my feelings, or my motives.

I fucking hate that thought. So sometimes I say things, and sometimes I do things. Things that just might help to clarify things, to answer some of those nagging yet unasked questions.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, I'm in a weird mood. I can thank New Holland Night Tripper (68) for this mood.

See, this one time, there was this really bad thing that happened. I may have mentioned it from time to time. This bad thing happened, and I died.

It was not murder. It wasn't even manslaughter, though a good attorney might have been able to wrestle a plea bargain from a gullible defendant.

Doesn't matter though. The past has, as they say, passed.

Then, several months later, another really bad thing happened, and I died again. Except that time, the really bad thing didn't just happen. Nope, that time, it was done to me.

That time, I was murdered.

There's really no other way to say it. No acceptable excuse, though a few excuses have auditioned for me. And been rejected outright.

It was done, to me, on purpose. It was premeditated murder. Murder most foul, as I read somewhere in some book I think.

But again, it doesn't matter. The past has passed.

Anyway, what I realized this morning, before it turned into a good day, was that I knew what I was more afraid of than anything else.

It's not the first thing happening again. It's not even the second thing happening again.

It's both things, at the same time.

A part of me expects both these things to happen at any time. Any second now, I expect to check my pulse and discover that I'm dead again. And bullshit like Saturday night only fuels that fear.

I've said it a million times, though perhaps not so wordily; it takes the tiniest of efforts to ease my fears, but it also takes the slightest disregard to create them and feed them and raise them until they're big enough and strong enough to consume me.

Just a little effort. Just a smidgen of empathy, leading to a hint of courtesy. I don't think that's too much.

I know that this is all clear as mud. Can't be helped, I'm afraid.

My brain is strange. I don't think that statement would surprise too many people who know me.

For example, I spent about half the day today wondering if I was thought to be gay. Then, I spent a good chunk of tonight wondering if I was thought to be a dick.

It's the latter thing that I want to write about now. The former thing was just silly. A fun little imaginary scenario that drove me nuts, but still silly.

The Dave is a dick thing is a little more serious to me. Because it might have actually happened. Be happening. Whatever.

See, one thing that my strange brain cannot do is read minds. Another thing is that it cannot reliably decipher vague messages. The lack of these abilities may be normal.

As if I'd know what normal is.

Anyway, the other night I got this email. Unfortunately I can't say, in this venue, what the email said. All I can say is that it was a little vague as to its meaning.

I immediately thought of, and assumed that the worst possible meaning was the correct meaning, and I responded appropriately. Or what I thought was appropriately.

That's how my brain works.

But then, earlier today, I thought of a second possible meaning. And then, tonight, I thought of a third possible meaning. All are equally possible, given the vague wording of the email, but taken in the context that is my life, there's about a 99.99% chance that I was correct with my initial assumption.

But what if I was wrong?

Well, if I was wrong, then I'm a dick for not responding in an appropriate manner.

It's only a .01% chance that I was wrong. But it's enough, I think, to keep me from getting any sleep tonight.

Good thing I don't have to work tomorrow.

I've always been pretty good at remembering dates. But, apparently, only if the significance of said date is realized right away.

There's this one date that I really wish I knew. But I don't

I can rattle off every other relevant date without batting an eye. But the most important date? The first relevant date?

At that, I can only guess.

See, I used to think that this all grew as time passed. That there was a reason for it. That I wasn't crazy. This was yet another series of lies that I told myself. So that I'd think that I was more normal than I really was.

But it didn't grow. Instead, my denial and my disbelief - they shrank. They shrank until there came a day when I had to believe, because there was nothing left to do. Occam's Razor definitely applied.

I know that fucking date, when I finally saw the truth. When everything changed inside while the outside remained exactly the same as it had always been. I remember that date. Like it was important or something.

That date was nothing. I'd finally opened my eyes. Whoop-dee fucking doo.

The important date, the one I should know, so that I can celebrate or mourn as dictated by whatever my current mood and circumstances happen to be, all I can do is guess at that date.

I think I'm going to guess September 20th, 2003. That's at least close. It's what you'd call an educated guess.

I've been lying to myself, I'm afraid. I've been lying to myself because I felt, deep down, that there was no way I could deal with the cold hard truth.

Until now, perhaps. As that cold hard truth presses onto my chest and pins me to the ground, I remember that I have surprised myself before. With my resilience. With my strength. Even with my resolve, misplaced though it may be.

The truth.

I constantly seek answers to unasked questions, expired years ago. The answers don't matter anymore. I'm no archaeologist, qualified to poke and dig through the ruins of my own past, hoping to uncover some scrap of knowledge that just might help me in the future. Or the present.

The truth.

I yank and strain at doors, long rusted shut. I tell myself that I have another chance, but for what?

I don't know. Something.

Anything?

But there are no second chances. There are only similarities. So that I can say to myself, If only I can do that one tiny thing differently, everything will be better, this time. Everything will be great, this time. If only I can find out what that one tiny thing is.

The truth.

I have tried to resurrect the dead.

And I've failed. So now I need to focus on the living.

The truth sucks sometimes.

One, I want her to grow up. Another, I want her to learn to close her mouth. Yet another, I want her to learn to close her legs.

Some, I think, should open their minds, and I'd like to see several open their eyes. The eyes thing - that's probably what I'd most like to see happen. I get very tired of seeing people I care about going through life blinded by their own assumptions and prejudices and opinions.

Me?

I want to be able to see the whole person, not just their worst perceived flaw or their best perceived asset.

And I want to have a more consistent memory - too often I forget everything but the most recent encounter. Or I do just the opposite - I ignore everything that's happening right in front of my face and I instead relive past transgressions or affections over and over and over.

And over.

Oops.

But I will not take all of the blame for the weirdness. I was asked, after all.

---

It was nice to be asked. I think that was a big step in the right direction. But it would have been much nicer to have been able to answer without restriction.

The thing is, there are no real secrets left anymore. So, I wonder, why do we pretend that there are?

This pretending fools nobody, and it springs a trap from which it may take a long time to escape.

---

The sky is blue. Water is wet. Things are what they are.

When did the truth become a bad thing?

Oh, wait. I know when it happened.

The truth became bad at the exact moment that it became irrelevant.

It's not like I never envisioned this happening.

It's not like I don't, even now, see this coming at me like a speeding car on a late-night road, while I stand frozen. A deer in the headlights, as they say. So transfixed by the pretty lights that I wouldn't be able to turn away even if I wanted to do so.

And I most certainly do not want to turn away. Despite advice from Everyone On Earth.

See, the last time, the last time this happened, I was struck from behind. Unawares. Completely blindsided.

That really sucked, by the way.

The lights are so pretty. I think I'll enjoy them for a while longer. For as long as I can. Until it's too late.

I've been having a problem with the whole risk vs. reward concept lately.

This causes me to do incredibly stupid things. Well, the same stupid thing over and over, actually.

There's the potential for a reward, or I wouldn't do the stupid thing. But that reward seems to have lost some of its specialness lately. Perhaps it's happened a little bit too often. I might have even become a little bit jaded.

But the risk?

The risk hasn't changed at all.

As a result, the reward is no longer worth the risk, and so I should stop being such a fucking dumbass.

---

Another thing I wanted to write about, but which probably isn't worth an entire entry all on its own, is that some people are really annoying me lately.

Specifically, their voices are annoying me. Even the shortest sentences are sometimes enough to give me an Excedrin headache number 15,000,000.

I don't know why I'm so irritated with these voices all of a sudden. These are people that I actually like. Some of these voices belong to people that I would actually fuck. And it's not like I'm annoyed every time they speak. Only at certain times. When I'm in certain moods.

The voices, they cut into my skull and they scramble my brain. That's not good. I prefer my brain over-easy.

So many times lately, I've sat at Rich O's and I've wanted to jump up and scream, "Please, for the love of all that is beautiful and good in this word, please shut up for two seconds!"

But, I don't jump up and scream any such thing. Because I'm trying to be a people person and shit.

---

There's this one chick who has, almost single-handedly (or double-breastedly?), turned me into a breast man. I am reminded of this transformation quite often. I did a comic about it/her/them once:

It's not the size that's attractive to me. Not at all. Definitely not artificial size. I want to make that clear. I am not a fan of store-bought breasts that have no purpose other than making a girl bigger up top.

I realize that things like age and gravity and having kids, these things can make a girl feel less than satisfied with her body. So by all means, get those puppies re-inflated and feel better about yourself.

But try to come out of the surgery looking like a human being.

Size just for the sake of size? I just don't get it.

---

Okay, I think I've rambled on long enough for one night.

I keep seeing these little flickers in my brain.

I'm pretty sure that they're not symptoms of a tumor. And they're not quite entry ideas, but I think that someday they might be. The latter, I mean. Maybe, someday, they'll turn into entries. If they can get over their fear of the light. If they can come out and show themselves to me, so that I might do this writing thing that I seem to want to do today.

Or, if I can catch them before they scurry away again.

Cowards!

I've noticed these flickers, these little thoughts, before. I've written about them before.

The thoughts are there, running around inside me, but they flee when I try to capture them. They hide behind trivia and inane bullshit, and they snicker among themselves about how easily they evade me.

Only the weakest among them are ever at risk.

Sometimes I manage to catch one of these lesser thoughts. Then I'll dissect it and expose its innards to the world. And its brethren watch in horror from their hiding places, and they stop their snickering, for a while at least.

I'm in a fairly strange mood tonight. I don't know why. It might have something to do with the bottle of Ommegang Three Philosophers (49) that I've now almost finished. But I don't think that's it. I think it's something else. Something much deeper than alcohol.

I think that maybe I've just taken a good hard look at myself, and maybe I've started to suspect that I'm not as happy as I think I am.

That would really suck. Because I fucking like being happy.

But I've been noticing shit, every now and then.

I'm starting to suspect, if I look at things objectively, I'm starting to suspect that things aren't quite as fantastic as I've been thinking. There seems to be an underlying stress to my life. Just a touch of effort to interactions that should be effortless. I think it's like walking up a very long, very slight, upgrade. You don't really notice that you're putting any extra effort into walking, but your heart beats faster than it should, and your muscles get tired much sooner than they should. My life is kinda like that. It's harder than it seems.

I'm finding myself being extra careful about what I say. I'm finding myself paying extra attention to what I hear. I'm finding myself working hard during those times of my life that should be the easiest and the most enjoyable. Also, I'm sensing that extra effort in those around me, when they talk to me, they seem to be working harder than warranted.

Oooooh!

I just saw another flicker! I'm going to stop writing now, and try to catch the little bugger.

I've often lamented that I do a crappy job of writing when I'm in a good mood. I'll leave it up to the readers to decide for themselves whether my mood is irrelevant to the crappiness of my writing. I happen to think that it's highly relevant.

Good moods lead to crappy writing.

Bad moods lead to not so crappy writing.

Most of the time, anyway. But maybe not all the time.

Like, I was reading through some old stuff today, and I ran across an entry I wrote a little over two years ago. On one of those rare days, back then, in which I found myself in a good mood.

I like this entry. I think I did a good job with it. It's short and to the point.

gamut

You know what I like about my life right now?

I like the fact that, for the first time that I can remember, I seem to have the entire gamut of emotions at my beck and call.

This is really pretty cool, this place that I find myself in. Even though I complain about it what seems like all the fucking time.

Q: How do you know Dave is complaining about something?

A: Because he's awake.

Here's a little challenge for you. Pick an emotion. Give me a minute, and I can be experiencing that emotion.

Some are easier than others, of course. Some I might even call difficult. But not impossible.

A friend of mine asked me today if I ever felt hate. That's actually one of the tough ones for me. But I can do it. I have to reach far back - years and years - into my past, and think about things that I'd rather not think about, but I can do it. If I'm completely honest with myself, then I have to admit that I do hate her for what she did, over and over and over and over and over and over. Without remorse. Without anything that could even be remotely considered as being anything similar to regret. With nothing but pure selfishness. I hate that fucking whore.

Yes, I do hate her. For who she is, and for the coward that she turned me into.

Love, the one emotion that I always figured was impossible for me to feel - that's the one that turned out to be the easiest of all. That's the one that I live with, that's a part of me, that I cannot completely shake even when I want to do so. I try to run from it, and I try to hide from it, and I try to deny that I ever felt it. Feel it. But there's no use running, or hiding, or denying. It always catches up. It always finds me. It always stands right in front of me and does a little dance that always makes me laugh. This is what I feel when I let my mind and my heart relax and stop trying to escape the inescapable. That such a person can exist in this world. It's just so amazing to me. She is just so amazing to me.

I do love her. For who she is, and for the hopeful idiot that she turned me into.

And, between those two emotions, and between those two very different women, I have the full range of emotion available to me.

Like I said, it's pretty cool.

I think it's because when life sucks, I turn away from it, and when I turn away from life I turn toward my writing. But, when I'm happy with my life, I want to experience it, not write about it.

That's my theory, anyway.

I think it's only natural, to become frightened at times like this. Times when I'm feeling both alone and lonely. Times when my thoughts do nothing but oscillate between regrets about the past and nervousness about future.

I almost never see the present anymore. It's frustrating as fuck. I get caught up in the perfect moments, mesmerized and hypnotized, overcome by fascination, enthralled and entranced and enchanted, bewitched and bewildered. Spellbound. Possessed.

I ignore everyone and everything and I do nothing but surrender myself to the preposterous joy that has confronted me.

Then, later when the perfect moments pass, I get scared.

It's too much. The moments are too perfect. This cannot last.

I really need to start paying attention to the moments. So that, when they inevitably end, when the duct tape and bailing wire that hold my heart together find that they can no longer do so, when I break, once again, at least I'll have something.

I would look forward to the memories, except that I'm not sure that I'll have any. It's all just a surreal series of beautiful blurs.

I forget where I was going with this.

Oh yeah, something about being frightened that I might once again find myself with nothing. Not even memories, because I'm too busy being happy to remember the miracles even as they happen right in front of me.

Wouldn't it be just about the most fucked up thing ever, if all this came to a crashing halt, and all I had to show for it was a fading smile and a confused look on my face?

I think it's only natural, to become frightened at times like this.

I realized this evening, as I sat at Hooters enjoying a yummy Newcastle (9263), that I was feeling very writey. This, of course, being much different than feeling writerly.

I used to feel writerly, every now and then. Usually when I was feeling particularly sad crazy. But it hardly ever happens anymore. I'm happy now, for the most part. I'd say that I was a happy camper but I haven't been camping in years.

Anyway, I'm going to share a couple of secrets now. I can do this, well, I can do this because of the secrets themselves. They will reveal why I can reveal them.

Does that make sense?

No? Maybe it will in a minute.

Secret number one: When I'm at all vague as to who I'm writing about, it means, 99.99% of the time, that I'm writing about one certain person. Always the same person.

Secret number two: Some people don't read this blog.

See what I did there? I made secret number two rely on secret number one for its meaning.

Because I'm all clever and shit. And I'm betting that my readers are, too.

Anyway, I can't decide if Saturday sucked or if it was good.

I made a comic about it, but I don't really like it. It's not very funny:

See, I'd spent the entire day emailing and texting back and forth with LaptopGirl. About all these tentative plans for Saturday afternoon and Saturday evening and Saturday night. It was all so fantastic and surreal. I was so fucking looking forward to seeing her. But, when she showed up, she chose to sit at the end of the conjoined tables with the dorks and the hot girls, and there wasn't a fucking thing I could do about it. Except sit at the other end of the tables. Like a weirdo.

Things got better after that, but I think that my mood was already shot. I seriously didn't know whether to bust a gut laughing or to spontaneously burst into flames.

As it turned out, I did neither of those things. I pretty much stayed in weirdo mode until LaptopGirl went back home.

Anyway, I could list the beers that I had Saturday night, but I seriously doubt that anyone cares.

This is an entry that's been a long time coming, I think.

I want to try to explain a little bit about how my brain works. At least one section of my brain. The part that's in charge of expecting responses to emails, phone calls, and text messages. I suppose it's also in charge of regular letters, too, but this is 2008 and nobody uses those anymore.

That particular part of my brain is flawed, yet predictable. And oddly fascinating in its own strange way. So I'll try to describe how it works.

As I'm not a mental health professional, however, I'll just have to use a couple of examples.

---

About two weeks ago, I emailed LaptopGirl to invite her to a new brewpub. This was on a Tuesday morning. By Tuesday evening, I'd had no response, and so I became certain that she was angry at me for something, or that I'd freaked her out by asking. Too fast and/or too much, maybe.

By Wednesday afternoon, there was still no response, so I became convinced that she'd packed up her shit and moved back to Arizona. Not specifically to get away from me, I didn't think - that was just a bonus.

By Wednesday evening I was certain that it had been because of me.

I remember emailing RockGirl, during that time:

"As her Jeep wasn't at her parents' house today, she has clearly moved back to Arizona. There is no other possible explanation."

By Thursday evening, I was convinced that she was back in Arizona, and that it was because of me, and that I'd never see her again. I'd only see her lawyer when I got the restraining order handed to me.

All day Friday I struggled to locate the pieces of my life from where they'd shattered on the ground. Again.

Friday evening, LaptopGirl came into Rich O's and said that she'd just figured she'd see me in person so she hadn't replied via email.

I was fine after that, but I'd had about 80 hours of torture.

---

A few weeks ago, HatGirl stopped responding to my text messages.

After a couple of days, I became convinced that she was angry at me for some reason. But, I kept trying.

By the time a few more days had passed, I became certain that her back was really bothering her and keeping her bedridden. So I texted her with encouraging messages.

After a few more days without any response, I convinced myself that LuckyFucker, her fiancé, had forbidden her from having any contact with me. That actually made me feel a little better, so I kept trying. Just a text message every day or so.

After a few more days, I became convinced that HatGirl and LuckyFucker had been in some terrible car accident, and that they were lying comatose in a hospital. I began to slowly accept the very obvious fact that I'd never see or hear from HatGirl again, but I still texted her a couple more times, just in case she'd snap out of her vegetative state.

Then last week, I became convinced that HatGirl and LuckyFucker had both died from their accident, and that nobody had thought to even let me know about the funeral. This thought really started to freak me out, so I tried one last time.

And she replied!

Yay!

Said she'd never got any of the dozen or so text messages that I'd sent.

I've been fine after that, but I'd had about three weeks of torture.

---

I guess the important lesson here is that I like it when people reply to my messages. And, when they don't reply, well the reasons that I make up in my head aren't very good ones.

So, please reply.

Thanks!

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!

I might not have time to write this. I've got to leave soon, as I'm having lunch with HatGirl then I'm going shopping for booze.

Anyway, the other night LaptopGirl emailed me this thing about a bunch of kids saying what love was. I replied with my own definition of, "Love is when a person's happiness is essential to your own happiness."

I didn't make that up. It's pretty much straight from Robert Heinlein. But I do agree with it.

Moving on to last night, I found myself talking with HatGirl and LaptopGirl about the different types of attraction. Sexual, friendly, protective, comfortable, romantic, things like that. I could probably, with a little more effort, list a dozen more types of attractions but, like I said, I don't have much time right now.

The thought that just jumped into my head was that I need to change my definition of what love is.

I think that love just might be when every possible type of attraction exists at the same time for the same person. That's why it seems so damn overwhelming and confusing.

I should expand on this entry, but I probably won't. It's a little too close to home for me.

There's this thing, this oath, in the justice system. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, it says.

Well, this latest conversation bit of meddling that I've heard about is one in which the truth was spoken. The truth, but not the whole truth. Not even fucking close to the whole truth.

The whole truth in this situation is something that I alone know. Everyone else is just guessing and extrapolating. And I wish that people would stop speaking their half truths on my behalf. Because it's not doing any good. No good at all. Harm, in fact.

Misinformed appeasement is unfair. It's a lie. It's a delay of the inevitable.

Attracted.

That's the word that's stuck in my head tonight.

What an incredible understatement that is.

I've asked that people stop meddling. I'm now starting to realize that I've been asking for something that cannot be done. So, I'm amending my request.

How about, instead of making shit up when you feel the need to express your opinion, how about just saying, "I don't know. You should ask Dave."

Put the fucking burden on me, where it belongs.

I was trying to figure something out last night. I lay in my bed, not even attempting to pretend that sleep would be coming anytime soon, but rather just because it seemed to be the thing to do between the hours of midnight and 7:00 AM. My cat Nugget seemed to sense that something was going on. He wouldn't leave me alone.

I lay in my bed. I played sheet monster with Nugget. Every now and then, for a while, I picked up my phone and made sure it was still working. When that got boring, I placed my phone on my chest, and I tried to figure something out. I tried to decide something.

Well, my phone never did ring. That's good for at least two reasons. The first reason is that it probably would have given me a heart attack. The second reason is that I never did figure anything out. I never did decide shit.

I really need to be careful, because this is all seeming very familiar to me. The names may have changed, but the circumstances are the same. It's like a remake of an old movie or something.

I suppose that some would call this irony. Or poetic justice, perhaps.

I, myself, would call it bullshit.

I tell myself that I need to make a choice. One or the other. A or B. I tell myself this even though I know that no choice is possible and that no choice was ever possible. What will happen is what will happen, and I have a feeling that I might be as surprised as anyone. Or maybe not. I mean, I think I know exactly which path I'd take.

But I've been wrong before. At least a couple of times.

Well, that was clear as mud, wasn't it?

Okay, so the red X is about where I was standing, just outside the building where I work. To the left of the X, directly across the street and about 50 feet away, is the 21C Museum/Hotel. So, imagine my surprise when two girls, who were walking around looking lost, stopped and asked me how to get to the 21C Museum/Hotel.

Nice guy that I am, I gave them directions. "Go South and turn left at the light, then go East and turn left at the light, then go North and turn left at the light, then go West and turn left at the light, then go South. When you get back to this exact spot again, go across the street."

Then I had to get back inside to work.

I hope they found the place okay.

Meanwhile, I keep writing. I don't post much of it, but I do keep writing.

I pour myself onto this keyboard, and then I censor almost every word. I protect the people I care about from the truth. What a fucked-up situation it is, that I keep feeling compelled to hide the most important parts of myself from the most important people.

I keep getting these fucking thoughts in my head. Not random thoughts, though they seem to come at random times. From some dark place inside me that I'd rather didn't exist.

But the dark place exists. The thoughts exist.

I am actually angry right now.

As if I have any right to be angry. As if I have any reason to be anything but deliriously happy. As if my life isn't a million times better than it was a few short months ago. As if I didn't get the two seconds I'd wanted, and a whole lot more.

As if I did anything wrong. As if this is somehow my fault.

This is not my fault, dammit!

So why am I so angry at myself?

Every now and then someone will make a statement, and nobody really pays much attention to it. Maybe they dismiss it as simple conversation.

But perhaps they should pay close attention, lest they miss something important. Something immortal even.

Like these words of MisunderstoodGirl, from March 2005.

Man, it's really pouring down snow out there.

I guess I'm starting to get a little nervous. That's probably not the correct word, though. Whatever the word is, I've found myself in a pretty deep funk for the last couple of days.

I need a good word for preemptive depression. I bet such a word exists.

Wait, I suppose it could have been the 48 hours of relentless rain that dampened my mood.

Nope, I'm sure it wasn't the rain. It was the stuff that caused it. The fucking stuff.

A hint now, a mention then, an insinuation every so often. That fucking stuff.

Nothing certain. Nothing that couldn't be rescinded if circumstances changed. Though I don't think anything that formal would ever happen. That would be really out of character. I think that the hints and the insinuations and the mentions would simply stop.

I'd take that. Easier for everyone involved to just pretend that the stuff never happened.

And if it doesn't stop? If the stuff continues and the thing really and truly takes place?

Well, that will suck. But only for me. And I keep saying that I'm not important. Maybe, by the time the thing happens, I'll even remember why I keep saying that.

I think that, too often, I manage to see only the good in people. Then, when they reveal their true nature, I take it as a personal attack.

I think that, too often, I see only the bad in people. Then, when they reveal their true nature, I ignore it and soon forget that it ever happened.

This might not be the best way to live my life. Seems kinda lopsided, if that makes any sense.

---

I was thinking about sweetness tonight, as I enjoyed a Fastenbier (376), which had magically reappeared on tap even after FutureDude had told me it was gone. I think FutureDude is pissed at me for some real or imagined reason.

Anyway, I know two girls who I would absolutely characterize as sweet. Not particularly nice, perhaps, but definitely sweet.

Shut up. There is too a difference. A huge difference.

There is just something special about a sweet girl. I wish that I knew more of them. But alas, they are very rare, at least in the world that I inhabit.

I think that's why I'm so drawn to sweetness.

I'm not saying that no other qualities matter to me, because they certainly do. But sweetness trumps everything else.

---

I'm not even sure that I could describe what the fuck I'm talking about.

---

I am tired now.

I remember that, tonight as I stood outside Rich O's enjoying the cool Spring air, I remember thinking that I seemed to be a pawn in some twisted game. The game was called, I decided, How Stupid Is Dave?

And, I freely admitted to myself, I really sucked at that game.

I was, it seemed, being manipulated by a master player. The best player ever, perhaps. I was fooled, and then I was jerked around, and then I was given false hope, and then I was misled, and then I was fooled again.

And, through it all, I played the part of the pawn perfectly. Fuck, I even liked being a pawn. Because it was better than being nothing, and I'd had enough of that, thank you very much.

But that was about 9:00, when I was thinking those things. By 10:05 by my watch, everything had, once again, changed. My perception shifted, or reality shifted around me. I'm not sure which, and I don't really care. All I know is that the game revealed its true name even as it shifted to my favor.

The real name of the game is How Patient Is Dave?

And, let me tell you, that's a game that I'm a master of. Because the value of patience is directly related to the value of the desired. I realized this a long time ago, at about the same time I figured out that if desire is infinite, then so must be patience.

I'm so happy right now.

I'm happy because my patience paid off. Though Wednesday was tough, and the first part of Thursday was even tougher, I did have the patience that was required.

I'm happy that my patience paid off, but most of all, I'm happy because the desired and the realized, for a while there, they fucking merged. For a while there, I wanted nothing more than what I had. For a while there, I waited for nothing.

And, the thing is, I could have waited for a million years. A billion years. A trillion years. Use whatever long period of time that you wish. It doesn't matter how long it is.

As long as it took, it would always be, will always be, worth the wait.

It was worth the wait.

And now, back home, I start to wait once again.

But that's okay. I can wait.

I have plenty of patience.

I wonder, how long it would be, this imaginary entry that I will never write?

If I somehow managed to shut down or at least suppressed all of my inhibitions, and I just started writing, how many words would it take before I was finally finished? Before I'd finally written everything there was to write?

Most people, I daresay, most people who read the thing would never speak to me again.

But the others, the ones that stuck around, they'd be with me forever, I think.

And I'd never doubt them again.

A lot of things seem random, until they're over, and then not so much.

Earlier today I was having an email conversation with RockGirl, as I'm wont to do, and I said that I couldn't remember the last time that I was utterly happy with my life. Not happy with just one particular aspect, but happy with the totality of my existence.

I wrote to RockGirl that perhaps I'd been happy during that brief time when MysteryLady and I were together. Even as I wrote it, I knew it wasn't true. There had been other times. More recent times. But I couldn't remember what those more recent times had been.

Then tonight, I watched a movie. I picked it at random from my shelf. At least I thought I picked it at random. I've seen it before. Several times, actually. It's one of my favorite movies. It's genius.

And, as I watched the movie, I remembered something. Something important.

Probably about the fifth time I watched this movie, back in the middle of 2005 - I think that was the last time that I was totally happy. Because I watched it with MixedSignalGirl. It was well after all the bullshit had started to destroy our relationship, but on that night, for whatever reason, none of the bullshit mattered. We just enjoyed each other's company. We sat on my loveseat, I had my arm around her, and we just fit together.

I remember, during the scene where the guy vomited all over the alley, MixedSignalGirl averted her eyes from the TV, and she buried her face against my chest. To this day, I don't know if she was laughing, or if she was disgusted, or if it was combination of both. What I do know is that I leaned over, ever so slightly, and I kissed the top of her head, and she sighed when I did it, and our souls merged.

I defy anyone, anywhere, from anytime past or present or future, to ever produce a more perfect moment than that.

I was completely happy with my life, right then and right there.

I'm pretty sure that was the last time.

(I will award 1,000,000 points to the first person who knows what movie I watched tonight. The title of this entry is a hint. Those 1,000,000 points may be redeemed for one beer, should we ever meet in person.)

I'm supposed to write my Saturday Beer Report one of these years, but it will be a long one, and so I keep putting it off.

Besides, I've become painfully aware, over the last three or four hours, that there's a good chance that my future happiness is about to be decided. And not by me. All I can do is wait and hope. Wait to see if any of my past has been worth the effort, and whether any of my future will warrant any effort whatsoever.

Hold on a second, maybe I can do more than just sit and wait. Maybe I can go to Sluttopia and drink. That would certainly be the normal thing to do. Maybe I'll do that. Act like a normal person for a while.

Things were weird.

I caught myself, several times, saying things. Things that were the absolute objective truth, but at the same time things that I absolutely did not believe. Because I found that I could no longer be objective. Basically, I lied my ass off, because I was less afraid of lying than I was of saying what I really thought.

I doubt that any of that makes any sense. It barely makes sense to me, and I'm the one who wrote it. Whatever.

I've written several times, in the past, that the right thing isn't always, or even often, the easy thing. Tonight, I think that statement caught up with me a little bit. I found myself doing the easy thing, saying the easy words, suggesting the easy path.

I know why I did what I did, said what I said, suggested what I suggested. And I also know that I was wrong when I did those things. And I knew all along, even while it was happening, that I was wrong. I knew, all along, that I was taking the easy way out because it was, at that time, expected of me.

It was a weird feeling, kind of a shift in perspective that really took me by surprise. It surprised me so much that I let the inertia of expectations control me for the entire conversation. While I tried to come to grips with what I wanted to say, I continued to say those things that I was expected to say. I stuck with the script.

It was easier that way. But it wasn't right. Not right at all. The truth can be the truth a million times in a row, but if it's ever revealed to be false, I should acknowledge it as such.

I screwed up. I'm human, apparently. Sorry about that.

I was trying to remember if I ever made the actual promise to stay here. I'm not sure that I ever did. I know that I thought about it, and I might have even implied it, but I don't think that I ever really came right out and said it. Promised it.

This is all just speculation, of course. Things are almost never as bad as they seem to be. Perhaps, this too, shall pass. Perhaps I'll have a good laugh about it, someday. About how I worried about what I would do, if I were pressed into action.

The thought of starting over is quite intriguing to me. I'd be lying if I said otherwise. I mean, there's only one thing that would give me pause. And sometimes even that doesn't seem like much of a thing. A sense of potential isn't really a thing at all, I don't think, when I think about it objectively. I mean, it's nice to have something to wish for, but when wishing becomes the end all and be all of an entire life - it loses a bit of its luster.

Sometimes it seems like I'm stuck in the worst possible place. A hundred miles to the East, and things would be better. A hundred miles to the North, and I'd at least have a fighting chance. More than that - five hundred miles, a thousand miles, two thousand miles - things just keep looking better and better the further from here that I look.

All choices were taken from me a long time ago. This might just be a new choice. A new opportunity. It would be weird, and more than a little exciting, to have a choice again. But I really don't know if I could make that choice, or if there would really be any choice at all.

Would it really be possible to start over while leaving so many things unfinished?

I wonder which would be worse, a lifetime of regret, or a lifetime of unanswered prayers.

Sometimes I think about wasting the words. Sometimes I think of the words as a boil that must be lanced. Just to get everything out in the open. After all, I can never be completely forthcoming and honest while these words stay locked inside me. Festering.

So, I sometimes think about just saying the words. Casually, like I'd say that it was cold outside or like I'd say that it was Wednesday. Just another Wednesday, no different than any other. Oh, and by the way, here is the truth. Do with it what you will, but you can no longer pretend that it doesn't exist, because here it is. In your face.

I expect that the truth would be met with disbelief. That would certainly be the easiest way to deal with it. After all, only the truth matters - if words are deemed to be false, then they can be swept aside and pushed aside and brushed aside and ignored like the millions of other lies that are told every single day.

But a part of me wonders. A part of me wonders if she would remember my promise.

I promised that I would never lie to her, no matter what. I promised her that, and I tangentially promised myself the same thing. It was a compromise of sorts. I promised myself that I would somehow manage to keep my big fat mouth shut up until that hypothetical moment when I was asked the right question. When the right question was asked, all vows of silence would be rendered null and void. But until then, I would be silent, more or less. Until then, I would be patient.

But patience, as they say, is a virtue. And it's a virtue in which I feel sorely lacking at times. My patience is tried on a regular basis. I can't stand the thought of misunderstandings and misinterpretations standing in for the truth. I really can't fucking stand it.

So, sometimes, I think about just telling the truth. Wasting the words. To fuck with proper timing and romantic moments and everything else that I've been waiting for. Hoping for. Dreaming of.

Sometimes, I think about just blurting out the words. Wasting the words on unsuspecting and disbelieving ears.

Not all the time, though. Not even most of the time. Usually, I feel strong enough to keep my big fat mouth shut.

Not yet, I tell myself. Someday, almost certainly, but not today. Maybe tomorrow, but not today.

The funny thing about tomorrow is that it never really comes. It's always lurking, just out of reach. Lying in wait.

Vagueness. That's all I ever really get, when I allow myself to imagine the unimaginable. Just the slightest sense of surroundings. The slightest sense of the surreal scene wherein everything comes to a head.

---

It might start with a fight, of sorts. An argument that's not quite taking place. A disagreement still mired in the throes of its own birth. A misunderstanding mangled and mutilated by misinterpretation. Something like that, anyway.

I've had enough. I stand, abruptly and purposefully. On my feet. On a chair. On a table. On a rooftop. On a mountaintop. I find the most visible, the most public place I can find. I can feel myself about to explode from the pressures that I've held back for so long. I will explode, finally and mercifully, and I'm determined that the noise of that explosion will not fall on deaf ears.

I scream the words that I've longed to scream for so long that I cannot remember a time when I didn't long to scream them. With every ounce of strength, I emphasize the words as they rip and tear their way out of me. I exist to say the words, and the words exist to be said.

Funny thing is - the words don't even matter. All that matters is the meaning behind the words. I pour everything I am, everything I ever will be, into the meaning behind the words, and I hope that it's enough. For understanding. For acceptance. For so much more. For everything.

---

Alternatively, it might be expected. Anticipated, even. A quiet moment, perhaps, I imagine, in the midst of a crowd that doesn't matter and that will never matter. A private conversation that crosses some invisible line between friendliness and something else. Something more.

My lips so close to her. My lips brushing her ear, caressing her ear as I say the words that I've longed to say for so long that I cannot remember a time when I didn't long to say them.

By this time, she expects the words from me, and she wants to hear the words from me. She needs to hear the words. From me, of all people. It is as surreal for her as it is for me, and that's saying a lot.

And I say the words in my softest voice, and my lips carve the words into her ear as I say them. And all is good. All is as it should be. I say the words, and my life grinds to a halt as I wait for a response, yet a large part of me doesn't even care what the response might be. She will know, without a doubt, she will know. And I will finally be free of all need for deception and deduction and denial.

---

I suspect that the truth will lie somewhere between these two extremes. I suspect that the truth will seem mundane by comparison. I suspect that the truth will seem boring to everyone except the two of us. Not that I will care what anyone else thinks. They won't matter. I will matter, and she will matter, and that's it.

I like, sometimes, to imagine the unimaginable. It's really not that tough, for me to do so. After all, I live the unimaginable every day. Every single day.

I was just trying to think of something to write about. I was having no luck, as I seldom do. I was thinking about the absurdity of it all. Spending my precious time trying to write things that, by my own admission, I don't really want people to read.

But then the absurdity of the word absurdity struck me in the back of the head, that absurdity having been flung perhaps by my cat Buddy, who for some reason has hoisted himself onto the bookshelf behind me.

This thing I use for a life, such as it is - it's taken on a surreal form of absurdity for several months. I can't think of a single thing that's normal. Oh, I'm not saying that things are bad. Not at all. I know bad. I've lived bad. This isn't bad. It's surreal and absurd.

It's kinda like I'm in a play, and all the world's a stage. I pretend because everyone else is pretending. Even though I cannot really accept that anyone believes this crap, I can't be certain that it's not me who's being fooled. So I keep playing along, even though people keep ad-libbing. Even though people keep breaking character. Even though it's absurd, this show still must go on.

I'm in a weird mood.

For the most part, I'm fine now. More than fine, actually. Good, even.

I haven't moved very far from the edge of this abyss, but that's okay, because I like it here. I may just build myself a cabin and retire here, I like it so much.

I'm like a mountain goat or something. Jumping around this precipice like gravity doesn't apply to me. Like I've learned nothing from the slips of the past.

But sometimes, I do worry a little bit. I think that's only natural. But I don't worry enough to make me step away from this edge. I like it here too much. The view here is really beautiful. It's a goddamn natural wonder, that's what it is.

---

I don't understand why people feel the need to meddle. Always trying to push us together or trying to pull us apart. Why not just let us be? Why not let us make our own mistakes and find our own solutions?

---

I could reach out and find nothing 99% of the time. I could do that forever. Odds are that I will do that forever. But it's my goddamn life, and maybe that's my choice. My life does not need fixing, because it's no longer broken. I'm no longer broken. And all it took for me to heal was to learn to love the pain.

So what if I keep reaching for that same cloud? Someday, I might just grab hold of something solid. Wouldn't that be something?

---

I've written before about how my wants vary. Usually, a particular want will get stuck in my head for a few hours, maybe a day, and then my mind will move on to something else. Some other want. But, this time, I've had the same want rattling around in my head for five days. I'm not sure that this one is going to go away anytime soon. Or ever.

I'm not going to write about what I want. The right person could ask the right question, someday, and I want my answer to be a surprise.

Well, the snowstorm was a dud. Despite some promise early in the evening, it petered out fairly quickly. I'm looking at two inches where I'd been expecting up to ten inches. So I can empathize with the ex-girlfriends of this one fucker at Rich O's.

I have high hopes for the coming ice storm, though.

---

The other night I saw someone reaching out to another person. I watched her reach out, and I watched her get absolutely nothing in response. I can certainly empathize with that, because sometimes it seems like all I do is reach out to find nothing.

Now, to be fair, every now and then people will reach out to me, and I'll either slap their hand away or squeeze it gently then move it aside - it depends on my mood and on who is doing the reaching. Sometimes, I do that. Maybe people think I'm a dick because of it, but I know the truth. I'm just trying to keep both of my hands free, in case they're ever really needed.

---

I'm really excited about this Jumper movie that's coming out. It's one of my favorite books. I know that movies are almost never as good as the books they're based on, but I have a good feeling about this particular movie. Also, I wish I could jump around from place to place like that. It would be cool.

That same guy wrote another book I really like. It's called Wildside. I think that would make a good movie, too.

This is just some crap I wrote tonight at Sluttopia. I'd had this great idea to write some moving and uplifting entries, but then, on the way there, I was reminded of three things. Two things that pissed me off, and another that caused me great concern.

Anyway, here's what I came up with. In case you can't tell, I was in a bad mood by the time I got to Sluttopia.

---

I thought it was a simple request, and I thought I'd asked it clearly. But, maybe not. So I'll ask again.

Please. Stop. Fucking. Interfering. With. My. Personal. Life.

There.

I don't know how I can make myself any more clear. Maybe if I throw in the word fucking a few more times.

Please. Fucking. Stop. Fucking. Interfering. With. My. Fucking. Personal. Fucking. Life.

If this simple request of mine continues to be ignored, I think that the circumstances will pretty much force me to reassess some friendships. And I don't want to do that. It would suck.

These latest instances of meddling, while perhaps oriented toward a different goal, are no less dangerous, no less disruptive, and no less despised than that last round of meddling.

I am actually teetering on the edge right now, between frustration and outright anger. And I don't like myself when I'm angry.

I don't want to lose friends over this. I really don't. But I will lose friends, if that's what I'm driven to do. If that's the choice I'm forced to make, then there is no choice.

My priorities are clear.

To me at least.

Some other people think they know my priorities. They think that they know me, because they've talked to me and/or read my drivel.

But they don't know shit. They only see the surface, what I allow them to see.

They haven't seen with my eyes or listened with my ears or felt with my touch. They haven't lived in my world, every perception distorted and only then interpreted by the tangible and intangible senses that make me who I am. What I am. How I am.

Conspiratorial whispers and blatant attempts at manipulation - does that crap really work? I mean, besides with children and idiots? I am neither of those things.

---

Then, I stopped writing, because I was starting to feel mean. I started to write a different entry, something much less controversial and more irrelevant, but my mood was already shot to shit by then.

Dedicated stalkers readers may recall that I was supposed to have a date tonight. ArtGirl and I were supposed to go to see some band at some place.

Well, that didn't happen. The band wasn't going to start until midnight, and that was way too late for me, since I have to work in the morning. Plus, I never could get ahold of ArtGirl.

---

Tonight, I went to Rich O's and I held my breath for three hours. Then, at about 10:00, I breathed sweet refreshing air for about ten seconds. Then, I held my breath again.

For what it's worth, I will not apologize for things I cannot change. I've already done enough of that, and it's never done anyone a bit of good.

---

So my mood held fairly steady at content for most of the night. Maybe, there at the end, it might have jumped up a notch. Maybe.

But there was a brief period earlier when, for about ten seconds, I was filled with joy. That struck me as patently unfair, that something so trivial could affect me that much. I mean, I'm getting way more than I'm giving. The same thing happened last night. I got to be deliriously happy, and the best anyone else got was to have to put up with me.

It just doesn't seem right. I've felt guilty about it, a lot, over the past twenty-four hours or so.

You know what it's like?

It's like I'm a closeted gay guy in a men's locker room. Or a pedophile working as a janitor at an elementary school.

I'm enjoying my life way too much, and nobody is the wiser. I feel like I'm taking advantage of things. Taking too much advantage.

I do not like it, and I do feel guilty about it. But I will not apologize for things I cannot change.

There was this one opportunity, for something not quite definable, where I totally screwed up. I blew it, and tonight I was reminded that I'd blown it.

I already knew that I'd blown it. So, it wasn't a big shock or anything, being reminded. Maybe a little mean, but still honest, and therefore acceptable.

Like I keep saying, timing is everything.

I'm not, and I never have been, one of those everything happens for a reason people. Those people are, by and large, idiots. But sometimes I can almost concede their point. Sometimes, it's very tempting for me to blame fate or God or whatever for those things which have happened or not happened in my life.

It's tempting, but I don't do it. I won't do it. Everything is my fault, everything has always been my fault, and everything will always be my fault.

People misinterpret me all the time. This is bizarre to me, because I keep no secrets, if only I'm asked the right questions.

The people who really understand, I love every one of them. Even as I hurt them, I love them. Because they know why I do the things that I do, say the things that I say, want the things that I want.

Sometimes, people seem surprised by the things that I do and say. This is bizarre to me, because I keep no secrets, if only I'm asked the right questions.

It's really quite simple, to define me and the things that are important to me. Explaining those things, now that's a much more difficult task.

I bet RockGirl could do it. Probably better than I could do it myself. She's all eloquent and shit.

Doing is, of course, much harder than saying. Or writing, in this case. That's my disclaimer - I have no realistic expectations of ever actually doing this. Perhaps someone will read this, someone with more strength than I possess. Perhaps this will do someone good.

Anyway, I think I might know the secret. This entry is part one. Part two is still sloshing around in my head like milk in a churn. Eventually it will solidify and I'll take my knife and smear it across the internet.

That's a good metaphor. I like it.

Anyway, the secret of the secret, it goes back to that first paragraph. The part about expectations.

Expectations are bullshit. You should never have them. Instead, let yourself be astonished by everything that ever happens. Especially the good things.

And hopes? They're even worse than expectations, for they bring with them an emotional bond to your heart and the emotions therein. And, when hopes are dashed, as they are so wont to be, guess what happens to your emotions.

Wishes? Wishes are acceptable, I think. As long as that's all they are. But it's so easy, so fucking easy, for a wish to turn into a hope. I don't know how to stop that transformation, that evolution. I wish I knew.

Every fucking day, I wish I knew.

Not expect. Definitely not fucking hope.

I just wish.

It happened twice tonight. While I was watching my tivoed recording of American Idol and drinking a yummy Schlenkerla Urbock (320) and mentally kicking myself for, once again, letting my nap run on for far too long.

I don't even think I dreamed tonight. That's strange, because usually there's something about sleeping on my back, on my couch, that gets the old eyeballs moving rapidly. But not tonight, I don't think.

So, I was sitting there on my loveseat watching mostly bad singers, hoping for a good singer, or at least a hot girl to look at. During the boring parts of the show, I'd think about things. Do some navel-gazing, basically. And twice I was completely overwhelmed. I was completely overwhelmed and nearly incapacitated. The first time it was sadness that washed over me, the second time it was joy. Each time, it was perfect. Just incredible unblemished emotion. The first time a single sob left my lips. The second time, it was a laugh.

Tuesday, I talked to ArtGirl about experiencing every moment. Good, bad, or neutral, all moments of life should be lived and experienced in their entirety. Because they're not going to happen again. Ever. So, may as well pay attention to them. They might be important. They probably are important.

Tonight I had two perfect moments. One was good, the other was bad. I wouldn't trade either of them for anything. Perfect moments are our most precious gifts to ourselves.

Anyway, this all got me interested, so I did a search on my blog for the phrase perfect moment. I found one promise, one declaration, and one memory. I'd have thought there'd have been more. It certainly seems like the kind of thing I'd write about more often.

I think that the whole purpose of this entry was to put that link in. I think that I just wanted to prove that I used to be able to write decent drivel, even if I can't seem to do it anymore.

Sunday night, the pizzeria side of the NABC complex was open for some sporting event. Usually, they're closed on Sundays, so it was a special occasion, and I usually go. Just because it's such a rarity. I really couldn't care less about the sporting event.

Anyway, while I was on the way there, OddlyFamiliarGirl called. I'd texted her Friday night because I had a question about astrology. She's into that stuff, she's just not into returning text messages in a timely manner.

While I was talking, and driving, I happened to glance down at my odometer. I quickly said goodbye to OddlyFamiliarGirl and pulled off the road at the earliest opportunity.

The earliest opportunity, it turned out, wasn't quite early enough.

That there, even though it's really hard to see, is the odometer on my truck showing 100001 miles. I think it would have been cool to get a picture of it at exactly 100000 miles, but it wasn't meant to be.

Here's a close-up. Still hard to see, though.

Once at Sportstime The NABC Pizzeria, I had myself a couple pints of their Old Lightning Rod (490). The place was really dead. I guess nobody cared about the sporting event. Or maybe they were all at some cool party to which I wasn't invited.

So they closed the place down at 7:30 or so. I went over to Tucker's and had some cheesesticks and a glass of Guinness (1783). I'd been thinking about having a steak, but I changed my mind for some reason.

And that was Sunday. Pretty exciting, huh?

Monday wasn't anything special except that while I was at Rich O's The NABC Public House, waiting for my pizza and having a yummy NABC Old Lightning Rod (510), OddlyFamiliarGirl and NotHideousGirl came in for a bit. It had been a million jillion gazillion years since I'd seen OddlyFamiliarGirl. It had only been a couple of days since I'd last seen NotHideousGirl, but it always seems longer when it's her. I just thought I'd better mention seeing them, lest I get into trouble for some reason.

Then tonight it was really warm, so I sat out on my swing and enjoyed a Schlenkerla Urbock (286) and smiled a lot. I thought about all of the times I'd sat out there and thought about sad things, and about how much happier I am now. It really doesn't take much to make me happy. Even the tiniest things can do it, especially when the tiniest things are so incredibly huge to me.

This entry, such as it is, brought to you by:

Bluegrass Russian Imperial Porter

(bottle) Pours black, with a minimal tan head that faded quickly. Light aroma of roasted malts and chocolate. Flavor was pretty much the same - roasted malt and chocolate. The finish was a little drying, but otherwise the 11% ABV is hidden very well. A very good beer.

WeirdGirl and I slept until after 10:00. We probably would have slept even later, except my sister called with some disconcerting news. Everything, in the end, so to speak, seems to have turned out well. So that's cool, but it did make for several hours of at least slight trepidation.

After WeirdGirl left, I settled into what's become my normal Sunday routine. Doing laundry. Shooting pool. Watching movies. Glaring at my phone.

But that last thing, I think I did more out of habit than out of any real sense of anticipation. I certainly never expected it to make it's little woo-hoo noise. And, of course, it never did. I was oddly okay with its silence, though. Just like I was oddly okay with the silence than ran through my head all day today.

The silence from my phone was familiar. The silence in my head? Not so much, but still, okay.

See, I don't know what happened, but I have to assume that there must have been a good reason for it. I stated my case, for whatever that might be worth. Nothing changed. So I jumped into my time machine. I was right, it's not so bad.

Anyway, some things are funny to me. They have to be funny, lest they be tragic. And I've got enough tragedy, thank you very much.

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

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

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

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

There's a pattern to it, I think. Or at least a series of relationships; one stacked onto another. Towering skyward, but unsteady.

The base is quite stable, thank you very much.

---

Last night, I dreamed of a conversation in which I was asked a question. I've dreamed about this conversation before, and the last time, I gave a decent yet indecent answer for that particular dream moment.

But that time, in that dream, it was someone else asking the question. This time, in this dream, there was a new person asking with both fear and hope in her voice, "What is it you want with me?"

Last night, I awoke thinking that the question itself, coming from that particular person, was flawed. By merely asking the question, she answered it. I wanted what I had at that moment. Which, at that moment, was her presence, and her acknowledgement, and her conversation. I wanted her to ask me that question, just as I'd wanted her to pause a few seconds earlier. Just as I'd wanted her to smile a few minutes before that, and breathe throughout the time we were spending together.

Awake now for several hours, I'm struggling a bit, trying translate these muddled thoughts into words so that I will understand them when I read them later.

---

Whatever it is, as long it's more than nothing. During those wonderful times, when it's more than nothing, I'm perfectly happy. And I'm too busy being perfectly happy to think of anything more. The base is stable.

It's only during those other times, when there's nothing, it's only during those times that my wants start to stack on top of each other. Presence, below acknowledgment, below conversation, always upward. Friendship, below acceptance, below lust, below passion, below love.

The base is stable, but the tower itself teeters. There's an almost constant rain of debris falling from the top. And then, when nothing is finally replaced with something, the entire thing comes crashing down.

But not the base. The base is stable.

What that I want?

Sometimes I want exactly what I have, as long as it's not nothing.

It's only when I have nothing that I find myself wanting everything.

I deny this new reality, and it slams into me.

---

Today was, of course, AlliDay.It wasn't too bad at The Pub. A little more crowded than I'd have preferred, and one shithead took my seat while I was outside making a phone call. But I got to talk to AlliGirl in little snippets, and her sunny disposition helped to brighten my mood a little. Also, it was freaking cold today.

---

I refuse this new reality, and it slams into me.

---

I also found out something pretty interesting and a little intriguing. Some little gestures, which I never really paid any attention to at all, back when they were happening. I've always admitted that I have a problem taking hints. This may have just been more of that, but I really think that it was more of a timing problem. Like, six hours earlier, and everything might have turned out quite differently. But, by the time the gestures started happening, it was too late. I was utterly distracted by then. Oh well. I'd have only given us about a week, anyway.

---

I ignore this new reality, and it slams into me.

---

After work, I stopped at Rich O's for a beer and a pizza. I had several insane minutes when I first arrived, but it really wasn't that big of a deal. Just me, being weird. Plus, I had PearlGirl look, and she verified what I'd been babbling about.

The resemblance was really uncanny.

---

I reject this new reality, and it slams into me.

---

I might get to see HatGirl this weekend. It's been a million gazillion years. Seems that way, anyway. I hope hope hope I get to see her.

---

I doubt this new reality, and it slams into me.

---

Tomorrow is Thursday. VacuumLady will come and clean my house and terrorize my cats for a while. I'll come home and immediately start slobbing the place up again. It's the kitchen that I can't seem to keep up with. And my bedroom. Those damn piles of laundry are back with a vengeance.

---

I am riddled with holes, yet I still stand. It's not that I'm particularly strong, I don't think. That's not why I'm, successfully so far, refusing to let myself fall. Again. Over this. It's just that I know that my falling would serve no purpose except to make things worse than they already are. And it would also prove Everyone On Earth right. I refuse to fall and, by refusing, I laugh in the face of Everyone On Earth. The fuckers.

---

I've been having a problem with sleep lately, and I think I've figured out why. Because, waking up to this new reality, that's the worst time for me. This is something that's certainly different, this time around.

My mind still clouded by the fading fog of sleep, only the most powerful thoughts shine through. And I feel myself falling, sliding, de-evolving into that past version of myself that nobody liked very much. That I didn't like very much. So I fight with everything that I have, and it always seems touch and go for those first few minutes while the fog fades away. Then, somehow, so far anyway, I emerge triumphant.

So, I don't think it's really sleep that's the problem. It's the fear of waking up that's getting to me.

---

I accept this new reality, and still, it keeps fucking relentlessly slamming into me.

This entry brought to you by:

Stone Vertical Epic 07.07.07

(bottle) I'm calling this a Belgian because I don't have any better ideas. Cloudy orange when backlit. No foam. An aroma of citrus that was a little bit intoxicating all on its own. Flavor of malts and oranges and light hops. This was a surprisingly good beer, as I usually don't care for citrus. Almost yummy.

Like, I know some girls. I may have mentioned girls from time to time. I look at some of these girls, and I see something indescribably wonderful. But, some people, when they look at the same girls, they see a crazy person, or a whore, or a stuck-up bitch. They see a waste of space.

Sometimes, it's reversed. Sometimes, I'm the only one seeing the bad side of people. It's not very often, though, and I'm probably right about those assholes anyway. It's Everyone On Earth that's wrong, I think.

They see sinister motives where none exist. They see affection where none exists. They see lies and selfishness where none exist.

It's, like I said, fascinating to me. But not in a good way.

Anyway, that's not what I wanted to write about.

For a long time, Everyone On Earth has, at one point or another, told me to get over it and move on.

I envy the people who can do those things. Apparently, they're fairly common abilities. I mean, just look at the divorce and remarriage rates.

Let's ignore for a second the fact that I'm divorced, okay? It's not really relevant.

Thanks.

To review:

Step One - Get over it.

Okay, that's not really a choice, is it? Getting under it, so to speak - that was never a choice, not if it was real. So why should the opposite be true?

Step two - Move on.

Seems obvious to me that step two is doomed to failure unless step one has been accomplished. After all, it hardly seems fair to whoever you move on to. Ask MixedSignalGirl if she thought it was fair, what I put her through. Don't get too close when you ask her though. She bites.

So, the problem is with step one. The whole get over it crap. You manage that feat, and the rest is a cakewalk.

Do cakewalks even happen anymore, or am I just showing my age?

But I digress.

Right off the top of my head, I see three ways to get over it. One way would be, and this would be ideal I think, one way would be to just meet someone new, and be overwhelmed by them. That would be cool, I think. You'd be doing both steps at the same time. It would be all efficient and shit. Maybe you'd get to meet Al Gore, as a sort of bonus, because he likes that efficiency stuff.

Another way would be, and this should really be a last resort only, to just give up. Shut down.

It's weird that you give up but you shut down. There are many more examples like that. Feel free to do your own research. You'll find that up and down have completely cornered the idiom market. You hardly ever hear anything about left or right or sideways. This seems grossly unfair to me. I may vote for the presidential candidate who embraces this issue.

But I digress.

Remember, giving up only accomplishes step one. And step two is going to be pretty fucking tough after you've turned into a robot or a zombie or something else with no emotions or soul.

The third way to get over it is probably the most common method.

Just wait. Hold your breath and suffer and pity yourself and whine all the fucking time, perhaps pour your heart into a blog, and maybe, eventually, things get better. Maybe, eventually, you find that you have indeed gotten over it.

After that, you can feel free to move on. But not before. I cannot stress this enough. Step one must be completed before step two can succeed.

For those keeping score at home, I'm still fucking awake.

Every now and then I have a dangerous kind of thought. I don't like it, not even a little bit, but the same theme keeps resurfacing.

My stupid heart tries to convince my brain that maybe I should just strap one on, so to speak.

Be a man!

That's always the underlying charge.

I think that it's a good thing that my brain isn't quite as stupid as my heart.

---

I can't believe that I have to go back to work tomorrow. Furthermore, I can't believe that I'm still awake right now. I forced myself out of bed, after about three hours of sleep, at 7:00 this morning. I'd thought that this would make me sufficiently tired tonight, so that I might get to sleep at a decent hour.

Ha!

It's been a rough last few days off of work. Tomorrow will bring a totally different kind of turmoil.

I hate change.

---

Oh yeah, before I forget. I wrote an entry late Sunday night. In that entry, I made a couple of cryptic references to a couple of girls. Neither of the girls referenced are people I saw over the weekend. I guess there was confusion. I hope I just cleared it up.

---

I guess that's it for now.