Okay, so I'm a week behind on beer reports. I don't care, and so I certainly can't expect anyone else to care. Not that anyone ever did anyway.

I'm doing it again, I see. Writing this for other people instead of for myself. I hate it when I do this. It means that I stop writing about the mundane boring bullshit that I use for a life, and I either don't write anything or I write something else that gets me into trouble.

---

So the other day I was thinking about a couple of tough things that I keep having to do. The first thing is acting somewhat like a normal person, sometimes. The second thing is dealing with pain.

I can do either of those things.

I can act so much like a normal person, sometimes, that sometimes I even start to fool myself into thinking that maybe it's not an act. And I've already gone through, and recovered from, so much pain in my life that I know that I can handle anything.

But what I can't do, what I can't do is act normal and deal with pain at the same time.

This is my current problem.

I was slapped in the face, then punched in the gut, then kicked in the nuts, all in the span of about an hour. All three things hurt me deeply, both because they happened and because of from whom the blows came. Doesn't matter that these things might have been were probably unintentional. Sometimes apathy is worse than cruelty.

I can deal with it, though. It's just pain, after all. Pain and I, we're old friends now.

But don't expect me to act normal while I deal with it.

Had this dream last night. It was all quite realistic and dramatic.

It was a typical Summer day. Partly cloudy and warm. Our little-league baseball teams neared the end of our game. The score was 5 to 7, and my team was losing. It was the bottom of the last inning. There were two outs and a runner on first.

It was my turn to bat.

I wasn't the best hitter on my team, but I was certainly no slouch. Not known for my power, though I could certainly deliver it on occasion, I was more of a hitter than a slugger. I was third in the batting order.

I selected a fairly light bat, so that I might swing it quickly. Power wasn't what I was looking for. Not this time. This time I wanted bat-control. This time all I wanted to do was get on base, so Tony would get another chance to bat. And hit another home run. It would be his third of the day. If I could give him the opportunity.

I settled into the batter's box, far from the plate as always. I didn't like being pushed away from the plate, and I knew I could reach anything outside. I wasn't worried. This pitcher was a joke. I was 3 for 3 against him already. The first pitch was an overhead lob and, just as it was thrown, the Sun emerged from behind a cloud. The pitch was a called strike. I had to take the umpire's word for it, because I was temporarily blinded.

The second pitch was an obvious ball, in the dirt. I watched it bounce into the catcher's mitt, and I laughed. I was being kind of a dick, I suppose.

The third pitch was side-armed, low and inside, but certainly hittable. I saw the ball clearly. The ball was going bye-bye.

Chris, my teammate on first, took off as the pitch was thrown.

As it turned out, I only caught the top half of the ball. A slow grounder to third would really test my speed.

Chris was already at second when the third baseman got to the ball.

I barely beat the ball to first base, but it didn't matter, because the throw missed the first baseman and bounced to the pitcher covering behind him.

Oops.

Chris didn't slow down as he rounded second.

I took a few steps away from first base and taunted the pitcher as he quickly retrieved the ball. Yes, I was definitely being a dick.

He watched me, trying to gauge if he could tag me out or not. He completely forgot about my teammate until Chris scored, on a weak single, all the way from first.

Now it was 6 to 7. Still bottom of the ninth, still two outs, but now it was my lovely self on first.

I called timeout, and told Coach about being blinded by the sun on my first pitch. I said I was going to steal second, and count on the catcher being just as blinded as I'd been. Coach agreed. I needed to get into scoring position.

I took a long lead, and the pitcher glared me back to the base. I took an even longer lead, and the pitcher whipped around and threw the ball to...

the right-fielder, apparently.

I think he meant to throw it to the first baseman. It was, after all, where the first basemen would normally stand. But not when there's a runner on first who's threatening to steal second.

So the ball went into right field and, I could tell, would make it all the way to the fence before anyone got to it.

I took off, and made it all the way to third before the ball came back to the infield

It was still 6 to 7. It was still bottom of the ninth, and still two outs. But now I was on third.

I was very excited. I let out a loud woo-hoo and my team echoed that sentiment from their bench. The dick trifecta was complete.

The opposing team made a pitching change.

It was a girl!

She had a huge entourage with her. Family members, friends, members of the press. They filled the stands and lined up along both baselines. Many of them stood directly on the third baseline, completely blocking my view of the plate.

In fact, on the first pitch to Tony, I could only stand there and wonder if it had been a ball or a strike. I'd certainly heard no crack of the bat.

I called timeout again, and went and asked the home-plate umpire if he could ask the people on the baseline to move, because I could neither see the plate nor run to it, should the opportunity arise.

The umpire said, "No, you'll be fine. Play ball."

I was incredulous. I pleaded for him to move the people from the baseline, to at least give me and my team a chance.

The umpire said, "No, you'll be fine, those people can stay where they are. They just want to see their girl pitch."

So I did what any reasonable person would do. I borrowed the bat from Tony and I bashed the umpire's head into a bloody pulp.

What's one more than a trifecta, a superfecta?

Stepping over the umpire's body, and still carrying the bloodied bat, I went to the first base umpire. I asked him if he could make the people on the baselines move. He took at glance at the carnage at home plate, nodded meekly, and started shooing people away from the baselines.

Who says violence never solved anything?

I pitched the bat back to Tony, and started walking back toward third base. I was feeling pretty satisfied with myself. I'd driven in a run, and I'd turned a weak single into a triple. I'd given Tony another chance to bat. I'd given my team a chance to tie the game, or maybe even win it.

As I walked by the pitcher's mound, I nodded and smiled at the girl pitcher standing there. She was pretty cute. Probably a carpet-muncher, though.

Damn.

I think I must have said that word to myself a million times today. I'll probably say it a million more times tomorrow, and again the next day, and again the next day.

Damn.

I need a new thesaurus, I think.

So I just went back and reread a bunch of my old drivel. To see how I dealt with situations like this in the past. I knew what I was expecting to find. Anger. Sadness. Disbelief. More sadness.

I didn't even remember writing the bullshit that I found, but the vast majority of what I found consisted of bullshit piled atop more bullshit.

I was such a fucking liar, back then. I lied to myself every time I wrote that bullshit. Which was a fucking lot, as I just discovered.

And now I wish that I was still a liar. A good one, a convincing one.

So that I might tell myself the bullshit again, and believe it, and maybe even actually get some sleep.

Damn.

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

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

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

Pretty much the greatest idea in history, right?

That's what I thought.

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

My two left feet.

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

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

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

Nope.

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

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

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

Trying to figure out exactly what I'm adding to this little formula that's got us so stumped. Or even approximately what I'm adding. Or subtracting. All I really know for sure is that the balance is tilted heavily in my favor.

My wins, they're all so fucking huge. I've become a spoiled brat. And sometimes I forget just how fantastic things are. And sometimes I throw a tantrum when things don't go my way. I threw a tantrum all day today. It's a wonder I didn't give myself a heart attack.

But, I'm better now.

It doesn't take much. Just a little tug on the line, as if to make sure I'm still here. Still hooked.

That curiosity, it means something. I think it might mean that I matter, just a little.

Though I can't for the life of me imagine why. Or for what.

I can't figure out what I'm good for, is I guess what I'm trying to say.

The whole thing is so lopsided, so unfair. I shouldn't be the one who gets to be happy. At least I shouldn't be the only one.

---

I had a dream today.

I accidentally wiped a smile off a beautiful face, and the world wept. I dedicated my life to bringing that smile back, but it wasn't meant to be. For I was the destroyer of beauty, and its restoration was beyond my abilities. Years later, I looked at the gray place that the world had become, that I had created with one selfish act, and I dreaded death. For that smile survived only in my memory, and when I died, it would be lost forever.

---

Crap, it's 1:30 already. I suppose I should go stare at my ceiling for a while.

So this is one of those entries that I'll write and, if I'm smart, delete before too many people read it.

I used to never do this, but it's a stupid semi-habit that I seem to have picked up. I get in these moods. Good, bad, weird, whatever - and I get an overwhelming urge to write about it. Then, if I'm lucky, I remember that nobody needs my bullshit and I delete what I've written.

I remember a dream that I once had. I wrote about it briefly. Well, take out the part about the song, and definitely take out the part about the whore, and what you're left with is my mood right now.

Swimming upstream. Getting nowhere. Wasting my time.

It's not a very pleasant mood. But it's my own damn fault. I lose sight of what's important, every now and then. I lose sight of what's important and all I see is stupid stuff that's selfish and therefore not important at all.

Last night, in an oddly coincidental bit of timing, RockGirl asked me a question. "Are you happy?" she asked. "Like in general, with life and everything. Just yes or no. You don't need to elaborate," she continued.

My reply was immediate. "Yes I am," I said.

Later, in a separate email, I cheated and I elaborated. I explained my answer. Even though RockGirl certainly needed no explanation, I gave her one anyway.

Tonight, for a while as I selfishly thought about myself, I forgot why I was happy. Just for a little while, but for long enough to completely fuck up my mood. At the worst possible time. As if there's any good time for completely fucking up my mood.

See, I've had this bullshit premonition in my head. Except that now I'm not so sure it's bullshit at all. Now I'm thinking that it's probably something that I'd better start getting ready to deal with. But I don't want to fucking deal with it, because any normal person would just walk away, and when I refuse to walk away, that will out me as a person who's anything but normal. And there may be one or two people left on Earth who still hold to the illusion that I'm normal. I'd hate to shatter the reality of those one or two people - they're totally innocent, after all.

I'm pretty sure that I'm rambling now. To be honest, it feels good to ramble sometimes.

The thing is, the thing that I should really start repeating to myself over and over and over and over until it's impressed into my brain like initials scratched into concrete, the thing is that I am deliriously happy. And I have damn good reasons for it. I need to remind myself of those reasons. Constantly. Instead of just coasting through life as a grinning idiot, I need to fucking remind myself why I'm happy.

It's unbelievable to me that I'm even capable of forgetting, but it's still happening. So I need to wipe this stupid fucking grin off my face and get to work.

Not cool, dude.

Not fucking cool at all.

Thursday was okay. I went to Rich O's, because I was taking Friday off. All the regular Thursday weirdoes were there encamped in the living room, plus there was an art show, so there were art show weirdoes scampering about as well. I ended up having two pints of NABC Cone Smoker (3833) while I talked with OddlyFamiliarGirl. She distracted me from all the weirdoes, so that was cool.

Then today I developed this overwhelming feeling that something terrible is either happening or about to happen. Even now, several hours later, I can't shake this feeling. I remind myself that I'm not psychic, and that helps a little, but there's still a very strong urge to go hole-up in my basement for a couple of years.

Tonight was my niece's 21st birthday party thingy. We started out at Hard Rock, and then AlliGirl did a fantastic job of hooking everyone up at Rock Bar. They got full V.I.P. treatment, and my niece totally deserved it.

Also, AlliGirl totally disappeared at around 11:00.

Weird.

Oh yeah, I had a Newcastle (9516) in a plastic cup from the Pub.

It was a good day.

A little weird and surreal, but still good.

And now I've got insomnia for some reason.

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 be 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.