I think that my problem is that I think too much. Life would be so much more simple, if only I'd stop thinking.

I'd have a lot more fun, that's for sure.

To be an off the cuff, spur of the moment guy - it certainly has its appeal. Fewer regrets would be one thing cool about it. I mean, it's hard to regret those things to which I'd never given any real thought. Reflexive, instinctive behavior comes with its own built-in excuse.

Also, I wonder, who can handle honesty? I mean, really handle it. Not like that one girl, who claims that honesty is paramount even while she hides behind half-truths and shields herself with unwarranted extrapolations. And certainly not like that other girl who, in her short lifetime, has never faced truth in its most brutal form.

Anyway, I have a problem. I've had it for a while now. I'm in love with two different women. One of them knows without a doubt, and the other, I suspect, only fears what my feelings might be.

These are extreme cases, to be sure. I deal with them the same way that I deal with everything else - I muddle through as best as I can. Usually, this means that I bottle things up and only allow the minimum amount of pressure to escape. Just enough, because exploding, I think, would be gross. And messy.

But that's not what I wanted to write about tonight.

What I wanted: to write about was lips.

I'm not what you'd call a breast-man. Or an ass-man. Or a leg-man.

I've always been drawn to eyes. Windows to the soul and all that.

But sometimes, something else captures my attention. Sometimes, like right now, it's lips that I can't stop thinking about. Certain lips.

The three pseudo-words that I keep coming up with are these:

Fan, Tas, and Tic.

It's weird, I think, to be so fixated on an activity that could fit perfectly well into a PG-13 movie. But that's the way it is, for me, right now. My fantasies stop, abruptly, before they can earn that coveted R-rating. I don't know why they stop. It makes very little sense to me, so I can't even begin to explain it to anyone else. It is, quote simply, what it is. Deal with it, or don't deal with it. I live with those two choices all the time. I can't be the only one capable of it.

I wonder, who can handle honesty?

Because, here it is.

Or, to be more precise, there it was.

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

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

I just read a blog that I haven't read in months.

Why did I do this?

Because I'm stupid, that's why.

Anyway, hidden among the blather and the drivel and all the other bloggish stuff that one comes to expect - especially if you read the crap that I write - I found this one particular sentence.

I'm not going to quote the sentence. It's nobody's business. But I will respond to the sentence, in a way.

I used to, for a short time, provide that shoulder for you to lean on. I never thought that you took enough advantage of it, but I always figured that you had your reasons. Now, my shoulder is unencumbered and cold, and I miss the purpose that your head used to provide.

The truth doesn't matter if nobody believes it. It's like that tree falling with nobody around thing. It's irrelevant.

---

I've been having a problem lately with dreams.

I've had so many dreams, and of such a vivid variety, that I've found myself confused. I can't always differentiate those things that really happened from those things that only happened in dreams.

If I had seen LaptopGirl tonight, I would have told her how happy I was that she wasn't a little toy red octopus anymore. Because I had a dream this afternoon, and in that dream she'd turned into a little toy red octopus. And I had to carry her around to keep these two asshole kids from throwing her into walls to watch her "walk" down.

If I had seen her, I doubt that I'd have been able to contain my relief. I'd have told her how relieved I was.

Also.

My dream self is so eloquent in his conversations and his explanations. I often wake up overflowing with confidence.

Because I know that I'll be able to say the things that need to be said, should the opportunity or need ever arise.

I mean, if my dream self can say such beautiful things, speaking out of his ass, then my awake self should do even better.

---

Tonight, several times every minute, I imagined something. This one tiny particular thing. Each and every time, several times a minute, I became awash with joy. Just because of that little thing I was imagining.

It was really cool.

Hit the snooze, hit the snooze, hit the snooze.

Okay, fine. Get up, take a shower. Check email. Nothing.

Go to work.

Boring, boring boring, boring, Hey, it's AlliDay!

Boring, boring.

Lunch time, finally. Hi, AlliGirl!

Lunch is over.

Bye, AlliGirl!

Boring, boring, boring, boring.

Yay! I'm off work until Tuesday! Yay!

Nap time.

Hit the snooze, hit the snooze.

Okay, fine. Get up, take a shower. Check email. Nothing.

Go to Rich O's.

Boring, boring.

LaptopGirl is here!

Yay!

She smiled at me!

Yay!

LaptopGirl is gone now.

Boo!

Boring, boring, boring, boring.

TremensGirl is hot.

Boring, boring, boring.

Go home.

Check email. Hey, there's one from HatGirl!

Yay!

Compose a drunken reponse to HatGirl.

Is it too much?

Nope, it's safe. Send it.

Write a stupid entry.

Happy Birthday to RockGirl!

If her stupid work phone had voicemail, I was going to leave a happy birthday song there.

But, noooooooo, it's a phone from the 1950s or something - before voicemail was invented.

Anyway, Happy Birthday!

Yay for RockGirl!

I've really strayed from the original purpose of this blog.

It was supposed to be for me. Hell, I was supposed to be the only person who ever read it. I certainly expected that would be the case, back when I started this thing in late 2003.

Well, it didn't work out that way. Readers have come, and a shitload of readers have gone, but I bet I still get a hundred or so a day, between the two sites where this blog is presented. Not too bad, since I'm not a hot girl. I'm kinda the opposite of a hot girl, I'd say. And most would agree.

A hundred people is about ninety-nine too many, I often think.

Because I keep finding that I'm writing for someone else instead of for myself. Or, as is more often the case lately, I find myself not writing, lest the wrong person read my words.

I used to like it, the thought that others would read, and even enjoy, this crap. It was an ego boost that came at a time when I didn't even know I had an ego.

But then something started happening. And I started using this venue as an outlet to say the things that I was unwilling or unable to say in person. I started writing entries with particular readers in mind.

I started writing entries to certain people. I did that for a long time.

And now, I'm doing it again.

Because I can't say certain things in person. The timing is wrong. Or the vibes I'm getting feel wrong. Or the Moon is in the wrong phase. Or the opportunities are just so rare that I don't want to screw them up by piling my bullshit onto someone who doesn't expect it or need it or want it.

Bullshit like, sometimes I'm just so fucking happy that I forget to be sad. I forget that I want more, and that I will always want more, but that most of all I just want the air to be cleared. I want to somehow convey that I am not satisfied with the way things are, but that neither am I at all ungrateful for this series of miracles by which I've been blessed.

I forget to be sad, and then I sit here alone late at night, and it all comes rushing back to me, and I write drivel like that last paragraph.

And the really funny thing is, I don't think that my intended audience reads me anymore. I don't blame them at all.

Monday, as I mentioned before, I went to Rich O's after work. I got a pizza to go.

What I didn't mention before was that I got a special pizza. Or at least a special pizza box.

The kitchen staff, led by MisunderstoodGirl, all signed the thing.

Then a bunch of other people who were standing around signed the thing.

You can click this image to see a large version.

I've got a pretty strange feeling running through me right now.

It's kind of like I'm not alone.

Weird, but cool.