Not that I know anything, but I do think some stuff, sometimes. And every now and then it's useful, to think stuff.

Usually not, but sometimes.

Like maybe every full Moon, like tonight.

Maybe the trick is to look at things objectively. To step outside, then turn around and take a good look at myself and my life.

Objectively, I'm the luckiest man on Earth. I absolutely do not deserve what I have.

So why, I wonder, why do I constantly find myself struggling to stay afloat in this damn sea of sadness that surrounds me?

I don't like that metaphor. It sounded better in my head. Please disregard it.

Anyway.

I've always been, in my deepest core, a pessimist. The worst is what's expected, what's expected is the worst. That's just the way I roll. It's safer that way, I've always thought, when I bothered to think about it at all. Usually it's just been something that is, like my height or my hair color.

Lately, though, I've found myself having hope of all things. For what, exactly, I don't know. It varies. It's always something good, though.

Happiness or some mythical shit like that.

Objectively, I'm the luckiest man on Earth.

Subjectively, I want to crawl into a hole and die.

So, there's a bit of a conflict there. I'm dealing with it, as well as I can.

Mostly by drinking beer, though denial is another important tool. As is this little trick I like to call selective memory.

You know a good way to tell when I'm in a weird mood?

When I start writing a bunch of single-sentence paragraphs.

That information does me no good.

What would do me some good would be hearing about all of the other things.

Like, tell me about how she jerked her head up every time the door darkened.

Or tell me about how her heart skipped a beat every time she heard a new voice, one that might belong to me.

Or describe how she glared at her phone, and wished it would do something besides just sit there being lame.

That's the kind of information that would do me some good.

And if none of that stuff actually happened?

Well, then lie to me. For sometimes the truth isn't enough.

Today I picked up my new painting, by MisunderstoodGirl.

Because I'm all cultured and shit.

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

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

Well, apparently, I was wrong.

---

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

---

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

---

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

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

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

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

I'm in such a weird mood tonight. Even for me.

---

I remember the last time I was in this particular mood. It was on a nice night that should have been a horrible night. I'm pretty sure, looking back, that I was in total denial. I wrote this, back then:

My mind is aswarm with thoughts, my heart is teeming with feelings, all with their own agendas. Some will merge for a brief time, join forces in fierce battle against their enemies, swear allegiance to false alliances, but all the while only truly working toward their own vision of an idealized conclusion.

Others are adversaries from the start. Like dogs and cats, like Arabs and Jews, they are born into this war which began long ago and which will continue long after these individual skirmishes and battles and betrayals have become nothing more than forgotten footnotes in a history book.

And the individual combatants, so full of resolve and so possessed of purpose, they will become nothing more than patches of ground where the flowers, nourished by the blood-soaked earth, grow vibrant and strong.

And me?

Well, I'm Mars, The God of War.

---

Sometimes I catch myself thinking that it doesn't matter what I write. That it's how I write that I should be concerned with.

Like, if my words dance and flow with each other, then maybe the actual content won't matter that much.

I have so many things I want to say. Perhaps I should stop worrying about the words I use, and just let the feelings flow.

---

I saw a shooting star tonight, when I first ventured out onto my swing. I thought about someone who's having surgery in the near future, and I wished for her to not be afraid.

---

It's impossible to not notice, the way things have started to disintegrate lately. I mention those things, and I'm called crazy. But, to me, that's not an insult at all - I've been crazy for a very long time. I'm used to it. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

I estimate that about 1% of the world will find this funny.

This idea was totally stolen from some guy at fark.com.

This was stuck at the bottom of some dick spam I got just now.

I wish I could write as eloquently as this.

She had grown up anyhow. Her brain void of all vainly tries to resolve. Imagine a short old man, towards him. He had thought that kundadhara would, like fire hidden in a well, we have, indeed, exposed the mighty armed hero, accompanied by those princes, her head was perilously near to his shoulder. One's eye is withdrawn from him, is really like food distributed at gaya's sacrifices. And they evening Henry sat alone by Rose, who had fallen and Rachel were closely associated, and they performed and learning and supported by all our warriors. Host's family with whom I had yet been able to vedic mantras become necessary for enabling persons as the travelers had supposed on seeing nearly passing his time in the nether region. Freed from.

Just beautiful.

Anyway.

Something good? I can only write about it if it's totally irrelevant.

Something bad? I can't write about those things at all.

Something medium? Sure, I can write about that. As long as I make it as boring as possible.

Ta-da!

Crap crapity crap!

So there I was, sitting on my swing and enjoying a lovely Malheur 10 (96). Counting lightning bugs, glaring at my phone, whistling for the neighbor's dog.

I was having a nice night, but then something horrible happened.

My fancy Gulden Draak glass, still almost full of yummy beer, suddenly leapt from its position between my thighs and flung itself onto the bricks at my feet.

Shattered, into a hundred pieces. The beer draining into the spaces between the bricks before I could even think of getting my tongue down there.

It all happened so fast.

Why? Why did my glass take its own life like that?

*sniff* I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye.

I wish I'd known that something was wrong.

I wish I'd known what danger signs to look for.

And I definitely fucking wish it had waited until it was empty, instead of taking ten ounces of yummy Malheur 10 with it.

Such a waste.

I'm not really sure where to start with this. I suppose that the beginning would be the logical place. But what was the beginning?

Maybe it was when I got onto the plane in Louisville, and this one hot chick (who's chair I once stole at Sluttopia) was sitting across the aisle from me.

Small world, as they say.

There was a another hot girl, this one sitting right next to me on the plane. But I couldn't tell how old she was so I didn't drool too much. She had very pretty legs, I couldn't help but notice. I mean, they were right there. Taunting me.

So then we landed in Atlanta. An uneventful flight, just the way I like my flights to be. We taxied to the gate and stopped about 50 feet short of it.

Did I mention that, about when we landed, it started storming like crazy? As in, like a motherfucker?

Well, it did. It was storming so badly that they shut the airport down. No take-offs. No landings. And, most relevant to me, none of those cute little airport gnomes on the tarmac to guide planes into the gates.

So, we sat. For about 45 minutes.

That sucked, by the way.

Welcome to Atlanta.

Not.

After we finally were allowed to dock at the gate, and after I finally got my baggage and my rental car, I drove 40 or so miles to Norcross, where my hotel was.

One interesting thing about driving for two hours in the pouring rain on an unfamiliar freeway amidst a million other cars - it's not as much fun as it seems like it would be. But I eventually found my hotel and checked-in. Then I threw my shit down and went back out into the rain.

I drove around for about three hours, looking for a Taco Mac. That's a chain down there that has, or so I'd heard, good food and great beer selections. Well, I ended up getting hopelessly lost, and I never did find a Taco Mac.

I did, however, find a Krystal, which was almost as good. I hadn't had Krystal since 1998 when I lived in Memphis.

My cheeseburgers were yummy.

My fries were kinda greasy.