I wake up underwater. I'm asleep one second, then the next second I'm disoriented and drowning. Struggling to survive, wondering if I have the strength, wondering if it's worth it.

So, that's not a lot of fun.

---

I've mentioned before how I can't stand to be away from my phone, for fear that I might miss a call or an email or a text from someone important. As this past week has been especially dramatic, I've taken to having my phone shoved up my ass when I shower, just so I'm sure that I won't miss anything.

Then, yesterday afternoon, I went to get my empty trash can from the end of my driveway. I'd been sitting in my garage, contemplating shit, and I left my phone where it was. I even remember telling myself, "Self, you idiot. Now just watch you'll get a call while you're getting your precious trash can."

So then I walked to the end of my driveway and back, and looked at my phone, and the fucking thing was blinking.

I only dropped it twice, fumbling to enter the password, so I'm getting better at that.

---

I did get another call later on. MixedSignalGirl called to check on me and say hello. We talked for an hour or so. I really screwed up with her, but she's happy now, and that's all that matters.

---

Then I got to go on a Super Top Secret Mission of Mystery, fraught with peril. It was fun, and there were no hitches. It was all very sneaky and clandestine. I wish we'd have worn ninja costumes, though. That would have been cool.

---

When I got back home, I sat on my swing and had about a bottle and a half of Left Hand Goosinator (115) and thought about the past and the future.

Not the present, though.

Fuck the present.

---

Friday night I rated my 496th beer. I've been thinking a lot about my 500th rating, which will probably happen this week. I want it to be something crappy, just because I think it would be funnier that way.

Because LaptopGirl is my official swill consultant, I have charged her with selecting the beer that will be my 500th. She suggested Lone Star. That's a good choice, though I'm not sure if I can get it around here. Her backup suggestion is Sapporo.

(Update: Her emergency fallback selection is MGD.)

(Update again: Or Mad Dog. I see her evil plan now. She's trying to drown me in swill. One way to get rid of me, I suppose, but there are more humane methods. I bet the Geneva Convention strictly prohibits drowning-by-swill.)

Anyway, I guess that's it.

I suppose that last night was one of those damn average nights at Rich O's. Better than I expected it to be, worse than I wanted it to be, the whole night just pretty much existed, and that was it.

I actually went there twice last night. I went after work, for about 30 seconds. Then I went back at 9:00 or so.

It's wasn't too crowded. I was able to grab a seat at the kiddie table fairly quickly. I had a Delirium Tremens (1394), and I talked to PlantDude, and I watched the door.

Fast-forward an hour or so, and the only thing that had changed was that I was having a new beer.

Grado Plato Strada San Felice

(draft) Not at all what I was expecting, as it was listed as "chestnut amber" on the beer board at Rich O's. Clear reddish amber in color. A pretty decent head that lasted throughout the glass. A faint fruity aroma - maybe cherries. Mouthfeel was medium-thick and clean. Flavor was very well-balanced. Malts and dark fruits and a tinge of hoppy bitterness. The finish was surprisingly fruity. A damn good beer.

After I got home at 11:30, I sat on my swing for several hours. I began composing a journal entry in my head. It was a good entry, I thought, but it was also a familiar entry. Too familiar.

Turns out I'd already written the damn thing, back in early 2007. The original version of this entry was much more rambling than the version I wrote in my head last night, but this last part was exactly the same.

The question was Why is it better to love and lose, than to never love at all?

Because sometimes, like maybe once in a lifetime if you're lucky, you don't lose.

Because sometimes, you get to love and you get to win.

To love is to open yourself to that possibility. To surrender yourself to that possibility of happiness. To allow yourself to have hopes, and dreams, and to imagine just how incredibly wonderful life could be.

If only.

This time.

I could be loved back.

Then I would win.

That hope, that trumps everything else. All of the pain. All of the heartache. All of the disappointment and the depression and the suicidal thoughts.

Hope is what separates us from the animals. Hope is what makes us human. So we keep looking. Even after failure after dismal failure, we keep looking for hope.

And, when we find ourselves in love, we also find the hope that's been buried so deeply within us that we almost forgot it existed. Love unearths it, and breathes new live into it, and resurrects it.

It takes over.

Nothing else matters.

Nothing else exists.

We become hope.

And I can't think of a loftier goal.

Someday, I hope to love and win.

So last night I reposted an old entry about blindness. Then, this morning, I awoke to find myself blind in my left eye.

Pretty crappy coincidence, right?

Right.

I guess a few days ago, maybe Sunday or Monday, I either got something in my eye or I scratched my eye. Something happened, because it started to feel a little uncomfortable when I'd blink or whatever.

Over the past couple of days, It's gotten a little worse, as I'd poke and prod and just generally fuck with it. I checked it out thoroughly. I also washed it out under the kitchen faucet. I neither saw nor obviously dislodged any debris, so I figured I must have scratched it.

Anyway, last night I reposted that stuff about blindness, then this morning my left eye was almost completely swollen shut.

I looked like I'd just gone ten rounds in the boxing ring. Or I guess I looked like Will Smith did in that Hitch movie.

I couldn't see out of my left eye, because of the swelling and the mucous and whatnot, so I did the next best thing. I poked and prodded and fucked with it all morning. As RockGirl pointed out, I have a spare eye for when I ruin one.

Then today at lunch, I was having AlliGirl check out my eye. She said it looked "a little bad." Since this morning it had looked "really fucking bad," I went to the restroom, braced myself, and looked in the mirror.

It's a lot better now. I'm not nearly as hideous as I was this morning. Hideousness being totally relative, of course.

And it doesn't hurt as much when I fuck with it.

So I've cancelled my appointment to have my glass eye fitted. At least for now, I'm binocular again.

Update: I had the nurse at work flush it out with some battery acid. That hurt a lot, but now my eye is almost back to normal. Yay!

Please don't do it.

I wish I had some magic words, but I've already said too much. Way too much, and it still wasn't enough.

---

Got a nice black leather sofa from BadPickleGirl today. It's in my basement, where it will displace this one ugly chair, after I move the shelves away from that wall.

My cat Nugget is scared of the new sofa, of course. I'm hopeful that his fear will keep him from shredding it to bits. At least for a couple of weeks, until he figures out that it's leather and therefore edible.

---

Dammit, this is supposed to be my fucking journal. My fucking outlet. It's not supposed to be some stage where I perform for my audience's amusement. And there's definitely no fucking script.

---

One of the ways that I know I'm in a very weird mood is when I start thinking in metaphors. Like tonight, I started thinking about how I jumped out of a perfectly good lifeboat because I thought I saw the glimmer of a lighthouse on the horizon.

The lifeboat moved away, and the glimmer proved false, and now my lungs fill with water.

Sometimes metaphors are fun. And sometimes they're useful.

And sometimes they're nothing but stupid.

---

I pretty much have to accept that people lied to me for years. I wonder why they did that. Was it to make me feel better? Was it to get me to shut the fuck up?

Or maybe, just maybe, they didn't know they were lying at all.

---

I've been on-call all week. It blows.

---

Speaking of glimmers, I like this entry, from 2005:

When you live your life in total darkness, it doesn't take much.

The smallest spark, the slightest flash of light, can capture your full attention. Even after it's gone, the memory of that flash lives on.

Sometimes that flash is welcomed, but most times, most times it's only reminding you of what's missing.

A man gone blind does not always wish for sight, for there can be comfort in the dark.

Acceptance. Tranquility. Peace. All erased by a spark, a glimmer, a splash of light that does nothing but burn the retinas and leave ghost images floating and intruding.

A flash is nothing by itself. It's over in an instant. But the memory of it lingers, and the blind man sometimes wishes he could forget.

---

I should try to sleep now. I hope I don't dream.

One time this guy was at the gas station, and he ran into a girl he'd dated a long time ago. The girl tried to talk to him, but the guy was totally disgusted by the girl's painted-on eyebrows, so he went home instead of talking.

The moral of this story is that having a great ass doesn't make up for being a total weirdo.

Would you rather have a fun fling or a lasting relationship?
Flings are for kids. I haven't been a kid for a long time.
What was your longest relationship?
I knew you were going to ask that. Right at two years. Or maybe four years. Depends on how you count.
What is your favorite personality trait?
Sweetness.
What is the most romantic thing a significant other could do?
One time a girl filled my house up with balloons when I was at pool league. That was pretty romantic.
When you are dating someone, what is the most important thing to you?
Comfortable intimacy.
Do you like pet names (ex: baby, sweetheart...)?
Sure, I suppose. I mean, I usually use them.
What is your ideal night out with a significant other?
Varies.
What is your ideal night in with a significant other?
Varies.
Would you be able to tell someone you love them, even if you didn't feel it?
Every time I've said those words, I've truly believed them. I'd never lie about something like that.
Do you like relationships that involve serious commitments?
Yes.
If you ever got engaged, how would you want it to happen?
I'd want to ask, then I'd want her to say yes. And I'd want her to refrain from issuing bullshit last-minute demands that she knew I'd never agree to.
If you were engaged, would you want a wedding as soon as possible?
I think I'd leave that decision up to my bride, but my own preference would be to marry sooner rather than later. Once you figure out who you want to spend the rest of your life with, you want the rest of your life to start right away.
Do you like to talk about the future when in a serious relationship?
In a serious relationship, I like to talk about all sorts of things. Everything should be fair game.
Do you prefer a sensitive open relationship or a strong silent type?
The former. And I just figured out that a chick wrote this survey.
When in a relationship do you have to have contact with your partner on a daily basis?
Unless there's a good reason, daily contact should happen naturally. When it feels forced, then something is probably wrong.
Do you like public displays of affection?
Occasionally. It depends. Hand-holding and brief kisses in a bar are okay. Anal sex on the subway is bad.
Is there anything you won't tolerate while in a relationship?
Infidelity.
What is one thing that you value most in a relationship?
Honesty.
Would you ever be able to handle a long-distance situation?
I suppose it would depend on the situation. It would certainly be tough.
Do you believe in moving in together before engagement or marriage?
It's 2008, I think living together before marriage is almost mandatory these days.

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.

Today, I caved on the whole beer thing. I had myself a Stupid Arrogant Bastard (66). I actually ordered it like that, with capitalization and everything.

It wasn't too bad. I might even like it if they'd take out half the hops.

But then I did something stupid. I'd bought two bottles of Stone Smoked Porter to bring home, and I totally forgot them when I left.

And now I can't seem to motivate myself to go back and get them.

(Update: Okay, so I went back and got my beers. Never before have I moved so qiuckly - I bet I was in and out of there in less than a minute.)

So today was probably the last AlliDay ever. Though I guess there may be one more, next week. AlliGirl is changing shifts and won't be working Wednesday day-shift anymore.

Wednesday. What a boring word that is. And, from now on, it will probably be a boring day.

My Newcastle (10200), by the way, was yummy.