There was drinking, certainly. And conversation, absolutely. I got the crap flattered out of me by a girl who wasn't completely drunk off her ass. I got to see my sister, Dina, smile for the first time in two weeks. I got to see HatGirl and NotHideousGirl at the same time in the same place. I got to see a dog wearing sunglasses. MusicalHippieDudeMusicalYuppieDude and I split a bottle of yummy Malheur 10 (41). I learned something bad about myself, and I began to suspect something bad about a friend.

I don't want to say that none of that stuff mattered to me. Because it all mattered. But I don't think that any of it mattered as much as it could have. Or, perhaps, should have.

Because through it all, I was waiting. Not anticipating. Certainly not dreading. Simply waiting. Because waiting is the context of my life now. And, not coincidentally, it's also the title of this entry.

On Sunday I spend almost the entire day in my detached garage, working on my dad's old Monte Carlo. When, at 7:00, it finally roared to life, well that was one of the most welcome sounds I've heard in a long time. I let it run for a half-hour or so. I watched the white smoke fade to gray and finally to nothingness. I listened to the motor transition from a very rough idle to a smooth, albeit loud, purr. I watched coolant drip from a small hole in the lower radiator hose and form a spreading green puddle on my driveway.

I did those things and more but, mostly, I waited. After I put the Monte Carlo back in the garage, I took a shower, and I waited. I went to the store to buy cigarettes and Diet Vanilla Cokes, and I waited. I bought dinner at McDonald's, and I waited.

For almost the last three years, I mourned. And that was the context behind everything in my life, every word of every entry in this journal. Behind every word I said and every thought I had and every action I undertook, I mourned.

Now, I don't do that anymore. Instead, I wait.

This is better, I think. Definitely easier.

I think I could wait forever. Sometimes I think that it might be best if I did wait forever.

Because, I know that if the waiting ever ends, then the real work begins.

Context doesn't add background to a life. Context defines a life.

I was just struck by a bit of a realization, and I wanted to write something about it. I can't write much, of course, because that would entail stating the truth that I've so carefully avoided here. But I can write a little.

The thing is, I've almost always been the moth. Drawn towards a flame that can do nothing but burn me. It's instinctive. It's my nature. The brighter and hotter the fire, the more I'm entranced. The light and the warmth of the flame - they reassure and comfort me. They give me something to strive for - to wish for - right up to that point where it's too late, and I get burned.

For almost all of my life, I've always been the moth. Always getting burned.

Twice, as far as I can remember, I've been the flame.

The first time was almost three years ago, and the second time was Friday night.

It's a pretty strange feeling, being the flame. There's a feeling of safety, certainly. And a definite sense of validation of worth.

But when I'm the flame, I exist only to burn. To consume. My heat and my warmth, they are mere side-effects to the truth.

It's a pretty powerful metaphor, I think. I really wish I could do it justice with these words that I write.

But I cannot.

I've tried, for weeks, to write an entry about context. And I've failed, for weeks. It's like I know exactly what I want to say, but there's a disconnect between my brain and my fingers. And so, instead, I write irrelevant drivel while the important stuff - the context - stays locked up.

Like right now. I'm pretty sure that something is happening that would piss me off, were I sure about it. I'm already pissed off even though I only suspect that it's happening.

I could list the details of my suspicions, but there'd be no point, without context. And it's context that's important. And it's context that I've been unable to write about.

Context, I'm pretty sure, is the most important part of any story. And it's eluding me, when I try to catch it as it scurries around inside my head. I know it's there. I can feel its presence. But I cannot describe it, or explain it, or write about it with any degree of legibility.

I'm pretty sure that, right now as I type this sentence, something is happening. Something that I do not like or approve of or understand. But the thing is, without context, people would be on their own to determine why I'm so bothered by this. And they'd all come up with perfectly reasonable explanations. And they'd all be wrong, because they'd only have the basic facts. They wouldn't have the context.

I started out tonight in a pretty good mood. Now, I'm right back to where I started. Irritated without fully understanding why.

Anyway.

Something has shifted inside me. I no longer have any desire to write about the mundane facts of my mundane life. Because only through context would those facts have any real meaning. And that context, as I already said, is eluding me.

There's a word that's been on the tip of my tongue for a while now. A word that I want to scream as loudly as I can, for anyone who might listening. I could scream that word. And it would have meaning. But it wouldn't have the right meaning, because there'd be no context to go with it.

So I won't scream the word, and I certainly won't write the word. What I'll do, instead, is think about the word over and over and over and over, every three seconds on average, until I fall asleep. Then I'll probably dream about the word. And maybe in my dreams I'll finally find the context that has eluded me so well in my waking life.

I find myself wishing with all my heart for something that I absolutely do not want.

That's very scary to me.

Because, what if I get it?

I wonder if, sometime during the coming days and weeks and months, I'll look back at this brief period of my life, and wish that I'd done or said something different.

Actually, that word different is misleading. Because, in actuality, I've done nothing, and I've said nothing.

I wonder if I'll wish that I had.

People can sense it, though. That something is wrong. That something has happened or that something is happening or that something is about to happen. And they ask me about it.

I answer that I don't know. I don't know if there's really anything wrong. I just know that something feels wrong. Things are strange. Tensions are tangible.

Something is crumbling, I think. And I'm not sure whether to attempt repairs or to run away from the falling debis. I should know what to do. Whether via intellect or instinct, I should know what to do.

And maybe, by doing nothing, I'm answering my own question.

Man, I'm tired.

My experience with tests has always been like that of most people, I imagine.

I'll answer all of the questions, and there'll be a certain percentage that I know I've answered correctly. The rest of the questions I'll either think I got right, or hope I got right.

In most cases, because I'm not particularly stupid, the number which I know I've answered correctly is pretty high. Then anything else is just icing on the cake.

Even on those tests that have been especially hard, I might know for sure that I've answered, say, fifty percent of the questions correctly. In those cases, I can use simple math to keep my optimism up.

Like, say it's a multiple-choice test with four options per question. I get fifty percent right because I know the answers. Pure blind random luck should ensure that I answer twenty-five percent of the remaining questions correctly. So that's sixty-two and a half percent, and that's still not great. But because I'm usually not a total idiot, let's say I can narrow my choices down to two out of the four. Then random luck should get me fifty percent of those remaining answers. That's seventy-five percent, and I can certainly live with that. And of course the fact that I'm not really relying on random luck makes my actual score even higher.

So I took this practice test last night. It consisted of forty multiple-choice questions with four options for each question. I took the test, and I counted the number of questions which I knew, without a doubt, that I'd answered correctly.

The counting didn't take very long.

Two.

There were two questions out of forty that I knew I'd nailed.

The answers were in the back of the test. I got thirty-four correct. A passing score was twenty-six.

So apparently my knowledge of the subject is decent, but my confidence in that knowledge sucks big ones.

Today was the real test. It was also forty questions, with four options per question.

I know that I nailed a whopping ten of the answers.

Pure blind random luck would get me to seventeen and a half correct. Narrowing my choices down to two would get me to twenty-five. The fact that I'm not really relying on luck should get me over twenty-six so I pass.

This was a hard class, and it was a hard test. I'm not especially worried, but I'm not especially confident either. And I'm definitely glad that it's over.

I've been in a training class this week. A pretty tough class, made even more tough because most of us there feel like it's a waste of time. One more day of class tomorrow, then a test that we all figure we have to pass or we'll get fired and/or shot and/or publicly flogged. That's never been explicitly stated, but it's the general impression.

Yesterday and today they gave us practice tests to bring home. The purpose of these tests, as far as I can figure it, is to make us want to kill ourselves.

My sister has complained that this blog of mine is difficult to follow because I'm often too cryptic. After two days of this class, I know exactly how my sister feels.

A Rich O's tonight, they had a thing for this Stone brewery guy. I was just there for my regular after-work beer (plus Monday is Pizza Day for me), and I didn't stay for the Stone dude, but I did have one of their beers.

Stone 10th Anniversary IPA

(draft) Clear copper with a firm white head. Aroma of flowers and bubble gum - very intriguing. Flavor was very complex and hard to describe. There was definitely some lingering hop bitterness at the finish but it was accompanied by the complex flavors so it wasn't overpowering at all. An IPA that I actually like. Wonders never cease.

I'd had a Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier (2226) before that, so I was already over my quota for the evening.

Oh yeah, there a new guy working at Rich O's who looks disturbingly like FutureDude. Same shaved head and glasses and general build. I was referring to him as FutureDude's mini-me but then I heard someone call him Bizarro FutureDude and I think that's the nickname that will stick. It really is quite funny, but I don't think FutureDude shares the mirth.

What I want to know is, why can't they hire more people who look like CuteBartender?

Sometimes, like right now, it just doesn't apply. Sometimes, like right now, it leads us down the wrong path, drives us to the wrong conclusion.

Sometimes, like right now, it fails us.

Not that it really matters what I write about my current irritation. People are going to think what they want to think, and facts be damned. After all, I'm only the fucking star of this particular show. What do I know, anyway? Certainly not more than those around me. Those people can all not only read my mind and my heart, but they can probe even more deeply than I can.

Not.

I've seen an awful lot of parallels lately, but this is no longer one of them. Those particular lines diverged at some murky point in the not so recent past.

Anyway.

To call upon examples from the past in an attempt to understand and explain the present, well it's a time-honored method. But sometimes it's a waste of time. Especially when the wrong examples are being brought forth.

This explanation, this simplest explanation - sometimes I even wish that it was the correct one. Things would be a lot easier for me. I could just accept it and move on. It would be nothing new for me, after all. I've been through that particular scenario at least a dozen times.

But the simplest explanation is not the correct one, this time. And I don't really feel like lying to myself about it. I'd rather know the truth, even if it hurts. Even if it ends up hurting more than the lie.

Not that anybody is going to believe a word of this.

I realize, of course, that it would help matters greatly if I could say exactly what it is that's been bothering me about all this. And, believe me, I would if I could. Or perhaps I would if I knew would be more appropriate.

See, I don't really know what it is. I have some ideas, some theories, but I'm far from certain.

I don't know exactly what it is that's bothering me. But I do know what it's not.

Occam's Razor does not apply in this case. It really doesn't.

I stole this from somebody at fark.com the other day. I wasn't going to post it because of copyright concerns, but it's just so damn fitting and accurate that I couldn't resist.

Just like I couldn't resist going to Dina's today to see her new kitten.

A new kitten!

Yay!

It is, of course, a comfort kitty, which is one of the best kinds of kitties. It's a Siamese, and it's about the size of my hand, and it likes to meow and climb and sit on people.

I could have stayed and petted that kitten for weeks, but I think that it might have become awkward for my sister's family after a week or so. So I tore myself away, and I tore the kitten from my lap, and I went to Hooter's in Clarksville.

While there, I had some yummy mozzarella sticks and three yummy glasses of Newcastle (7107), then I bought some crab legs and brought them home.

I never said that this would be an interesting entry.

Observant readers may have noticed that there was no Friday Beer Report this week. There's a simple explanation for this really. There was no Friday beer. After work I slept until after 11:00, and I was still in a crappy mood, so I stayed home.

So I'm feeling very disgusted and disillusioned. I'm thinking that I'll coin the word disgullusioned to more efficiently describe this mood. Or maybe disillusted. Whichever term I choose, I get the feeling that I'll be using it a lot.

Since I hadn't so much as stepped outside my house for 24 hours, I succumbed to the peer pressure from the voices in my head at about 6:00 last night, and I went to Rich O's.

It was fairly empty at that early hour. Just some weirdoes in the living room area. I sat at the bar and had a Sclenkerla Marzen (943), which I just noticed has made it to number 11 on my all-time consumption list. That's just in the few months since SteveFest.

Anyway, I sat at the bar for a while. Then TremensGirl came in and joined me. I think I put too much pressure on her almost immediately. I mean, how was she supposed to counteract the disgullusionment I was feeling for her entire species?

Once the weirdoes left, I moved to the throne and TremensGirl moved to the loveseat. Various people came and went at various times. My next beer was a very yummy Baltika 6 (396).

Last night BikerGirl was having a wandering birthday party, and I ended up trading a few text messages with her to see where they had wandered to. They were going to The Pub, so I went over to Louisville. I was early, so I stopped at Hard Rock and tried to talk to CoolHairGirl for a bit, but they were very busy in there.

At The Pub, I had a couple Newcastles (7047) and talked for a bit with BikerGirl and her posse. I watched the clock very closely, and right at 12:00 I gave her a birthday hug and then came home.