Tonight was virtual Friday for me, as I'm off work until Monday. So, yay!

There, I wrote something happy. I saw HotGirlsHotCousin tonight, and she told me that my journal was too depressing. I don't know why she should feel that way. I mean, it's not like she has to live my life. She, and all of my other readers, they should all be grateful that they're not the ones having to put up with this bullshit. Reading what I write should make everyone happy, by contrast if nothing else.

Anyway, I went to Rich O's at about 7:00, and I sat with the aforementioned HotGirlsHotCousin and one of her cousins who should probably get a nickname but I haven't picked one yet. Since there was nothing on the beer board that looked appealing to me I had a Smithwick's (1534).

Then, an hour or so later, I had another one (1554).

I spent the vast majority of the night emailing RockGirl and probably bugging the shit out of her. But that's okay. She's tough, and I know she can take it.

My next beer was a Schlenkerla Weizen (69), which smelled and tasted fantastic to me. I even made everyone around me smell it, I was so proud.

Then, I got bored with sitting on the sofa, so I moved over to the kiddie table and talked with TShirtDude for a while. By then I was drinking a Regenboog Guido (30) which I really loved.

At one point I drunk-texted NotHideousGirl. I wasn't expecting a response, and I didn't get one.

At 10:30 or so, a smoking hot girl came in and sat out front. So, feeling frisky, I stole a pen and a notepad from behind the bar, adopted my most professional expression, and went and took her beer and food order. But then the real bartender took over and didn't let me approach the hot girl anymore.

Then at about 11:00 I got really bored, so I went to White Castle and then came home.

And tomorrow, I have a decision to make. What to do with four days off work?

I had an odd little dream tonight. One to which I wouldn't have paid much attention except that it's kinda recurring. Kinda sorta.

I was at my home, in my living room, taking a nap on my couch. My mom was there, sitting on my loveseat and doing crochet. There was a black kitten in her lap, trying to attack the yarn.

I wasn't quite able to get to sleep, and I was tossing and turning on the couch. I fell off onto the floor. Mom looked up from her work and asked if I was okay.

I couldn't answer her. I tried very hard to answer her, but no words would leave my mouth. Just a croak is all I could manage.

I crawled up under the coffee table, where I figured it would be dark, so I could go to sleep. I was so tired.

My mom put down her stuff and sat on the floor and talked to me. She told me that I would be okay, that I'd had a bad dream, and that everything was fine. She tried to reach in to stroke my head, but I kept moving away from her for some reason. I guess I didn't want comfort, I wanted to sleep. I somehow knew that once I'd had a good nap, and after I'd woken up, everything would be good again. If only I could sleep for a little while.

Mom started singing a song to me. Some childhood lullaby. And I started to cry. Mom asked me why I was crying, and this time I was able to speak.

"Because it hurts," I said. "Because it hurts so much. It never stops."

"There there," she said. "It will all be better in a few days."

And then she told me about Thursday. How she and Dad were going away together. On a cruise to the Virgin Islands, for a sort of second honeymoon. How excited she was about the trip, and how she was going to buy me lots of presents, and she'd be back in a couple of weeks.

I felt a little better then. I was very happy for her and Dad. They'd saved up for this trip for a long time. They deserved it. I started to smile, and I started to crawl out from under the coffee table..

But then I remembered that Dad had died.

I became frantic with fear. I crawled under the couch. I couldn't face my mom. I couldn't tell her that Dad was gone, that their dream vacation wasn't going to happen.

But then I remembered that Mom had died, too.

Under the couch, there was a sort of display. Like in a museum. There was a door with a big rusty padlock on it. There was another door, painted red, and slightly ajar. That door scared me. I shied away from it. Between the doors was a pedestal, and on the pedestal were two tickets for a cruise to the Virgin Islands. Both were stamped with the word "cancelled" in big red letters.

Then the black kitten meowed at me, and started climbing up my leg, and I woke up.

First, the black kitten. It had no tail. I've dreamed about kittens like that before.

Second, I was under the coffee table crying about something in particular. Someone in particular. My grief in my dreams is so much stronger than what I feel in my waking life. I definitely notice when I dream about her. Even when it's bad.

But the most recurring thing about the dream was the part about Thursday. I had another dream about Thursday a few days ago. And another one about a week before that. Always the same Thursday. Always the 19th of April. Always the second Thursday after Easter.

This Thursday, I'm taking a day of vacation. Maybe I'll sleep all day long. Maybe, when I wake up, everything will be good again.

This entry brought to you by:

New Albanian Jasmine the Mastiff (10)

(draft) Black with a decent tan head. Strong aroma of roasted malt and a touch of chocolate. Flavor is like the aroma. Mostly roasted malt with a touch of chocolate. And no hop bitterness! Yay! I really like this beer, so I'll probably never see it again once this batch is gone. I'd better drink up while I can.

Today, StalkerGirl completed my game of 20-questions. She got it right at number 20. So, yay for StalkerGirl!

Meanwhile, RockGirl continues to toil. I lost track of the number of questions she's had after 8,000,000 or so. Actually, I'm pretty sure she's just been fucking with me.

Anyway, now I have to get cryptic.

One of my more self-destructive habits, mentally destructive I mean, is that I tend to obsess over whatever I figure is the worst thing that could possibly happen. And then I start playing some horrible scenario over and over in my head until, in theory at least, I become immune to it. Or at least less susceptible to its harmful effects.

That's the theory.

It even worked. Once.

I used to obsess about this one terrible thing. I'd write about it and I'd talk about it and I'd even joke about it sometimes, and then, when it actually happened, I was surprisingly okay with it. Not really okay per se, but I never did implode or explode the way I'd have thought I would. I think my biggest problem was wondering when and/or if I would realize the horror of the situation and then collapse into a spreading pool of misery and self-pity.

But it never happened. So that was cool, I guess. Though sometimes I think that it might have been nice to have felt something.

Now, now I've found myself a new obsession. Once that's admittedly even less likely than the last one. Less likely, perhaps, but a million times more terrible should it ever happen.

And this scenario, I can't talk about it. I certainly can't fucking joke about it. I did try writing about it. Once, in an email. It was completely ignored.

A while back I wrote an entry about something terrible. For a few days I was sure that this would be the worst thing that could happen. But I realized that I was wrong. It wouldn't even be close to the worst thing. Nope, the worst thing is something that I can't even bring myself to imagine with any semblance of detail.

So, in the unlikely event that it ever does happen, I'll be woefully unprepared.

Great, now I'm in a shitty mood. Way to go, Dave. You dipshit.

This entry bought to you by:

Left Hand Smoke Jumper (25)

(bottle) Almost completely black. Huge heaping head. Heavenly smoked malt aroma. From under the massive layer of foam, some chocolate notes rose and made themselves known. The mouthfeel is a lot thinner than I was expecting. Flavor is intensely sweet. Some smoke in the finish. After the first few sips, I became numb to the sweetness, and the nice overall balance of the beer became evident. Quite yummy.

So, I've been toying with this idea all day. This idea of writing something completely honest and straightforward.

Just as sort of a test. To see what might happen if I took someone's words and interpreted them as truth. Words saying that honesty and openness are paramount to her.

I don't think the truth would be appreciated. I think that it would be seen as a series of dismissals and denials. Or even worse, as a mere subset of the real truth.

Why even bother?

Because I could be wrong, that's why.

So, here goes.

Two or three or four times a week, I sit at The Pub during lunch, and I listen to my friend bad-mouth men. I listen to her tell me that all men are assholes, that men only want sex from women, that men are lying backstabbing bastards. That there are no good men in the world, that they're a bunch of apes who are nothing more than a life-support system for a penis.

I sit, and I listen to this. I even nod at the appropriate times. At least a part of me does. The friend part. That's the part of me that climbs out of bed late at night to go where I'm needed, just because I'm needed. That's also the part of me that exits unannounced, lest some word or action or facial expression betray some unauthorized thoughts or feelings.

That guy, that Dave-as-a-friend guy, he's a pretty decent fellow. I think everyone should have a friend like him. I know that I wish I did. Even if he is kind of a pussy.

But there's another part of me, sitting in that bar two or three or four times a week. The part that's not a friend. The part that's a man. The part that wants to jump up onto the bar and scream in frustration when he hears those hateful and hurtful words. And defend himself as the man that he is. A good man. A decent man. Not a lying backstabbing bastard who only wants sex. More than a penis life-support system. Much fucking more.

But, problem is, she doesn't think of me as a man at all. If she did, she wouldn't be talking to me the way she does. She probably wouldn't be talking to me at all.

My hair is, after all, the wrong color.

That's fair, I suppose. She has the same name as a whore I used to be married to. So that makes it even, right?

Look, this frustration of mine isn't even about my friend. She and I, as woman and man, would have many more forbidding obstacles than my hair and her name. This thing with her and me - it's just the most fitting and most current example of what frustrates me.

Why can't I be both? Why can't I be a friend and a man? Why must I fucking choose and, if I refuse to choose, why then is that choice made for me?

I sit at the bar several times a week, listening to my friend bad-mouth men. And I empathize and I nod at the right times. I do these things because I'm her friend. But I also think about what it might be like to kiss her lips, or hold a hug for a few seconds or minutes longer than necessary. I do these things because I'm a man.

Why, I wonder, why can I have a friend who's also a woman, but I myself can only be seen as friend or as a man. Not as both. Never as both.

It frustrates the hell out of me, and that's the truth.

Now, let's see how that truth gets misinterpreted.

And so another long Saturday leads to another long Saturday Beer Report. One in which I'm certain to leave out several interesting tidbits as I strive to keep from rambling on and on and on and on. And on.

My day started when I went to see WeirdGirl for a bit. She's starting a new job and wanted me to check the place out. It's not my kind of place. There's no good beer there, and the stage was an ominous presence. Loud music and crappy beer make Dave something something.

So then I went over to Borders and bought a book and a notebook and a pen. Then I went to The Pub and had a couple pints of Newcastle (4352) with my fish and chips. It was kinda boring there, plus this one bartender wouldn't leave me alone, so I went over to Hard Rock to see if CoolHairGirl was working.

She was, so I stayed.

I had a couple glasses of BBC Alt (330) and talked to CoolHairGirl whenever she'd get a little break. One cool thing was that we were talking about gluten intolerance for some reason, and she mentioned that she'd met a girl at this Third Street Dive place who suffered from it. From the description I was pretty sure that she was talking about NotHideousGirl. So I whipped out my blackberry and pulled up a picture of NotHideousGirl.

It was her! Small world, as they say.

At about 5:30 or so, I got bored so I left Hard Rock. I'd thought that maybe I'd just go straight to Rich O's, but (a) HatGirl was sick, and (b) I wasn't really in the mood for another sausage-fest. So I did something different.

I went down to our local Caesar's casino.

That place was really packed, as I'd been expecting. I'd wanted to play some blackjack, but there wasn't a single blackjack seat open anywhere. So instead I spent about three hours playing pai gow poker and losing about $22.

Then I left the boat and went to this Legends bar there in the Caesar's complex. They always have decent beer there. I sat at the bar and ordered a BBC Jefferson's Reserve Bourbon Barrel Stout (432).

I'd only been sitting for about ten seconds when my phone started vibrating. It was, of course, HatGirl. No longer sick, and sitting at Rich O's wondering where I was. I somehow fought the urge to skip and turn cartwheels all the way to Rich O's. Instead, I texted back that I was down at the boat.

So then HatGirl texted for me to stay where I was, and that she and LuckyFucker would come down there.

Never has an hour passed so slowly.

I spent most of that hour talking to this hooker who was sitting next to me. She and her girlfriend were having a two-for-one special going on, and there weren't any takers. At least up until that point. I reminded her that the night was still young. I also ordered some nuclear hot potato skins and managed to get one of them down without melting holes in my cheeks.

HatGirl texted me again when they left Rich O's, and I started to get even more excited. It was really going to happen. I was going to get to see HatGirl. My heart threatened to leap from my chest.

I nearly gave myself whiplash for the next several minutes, jerking my head to the left every two seconds to see if they'd arrived.

And then, they did!

HatGirl!

Yay!

So HatGirl and LuckyFucker and I spent a couple of hours talking and drinking beer. I had a couple glasses of Newcastle (4364). HatGirl had her usual Guinness. LuckyFucker had the BBC bourbon barrel stout I'd been drinking earlier. A good time was had by all. Especially me. Because, HatGirl! Yay!

Once the happy couple left I moved back to the bar. The hooker was gone, so maybe she found a customer after all. I had a couple Diet Cokes while I unwound, then I came home.

Sometimes, when I let my mind run wild, I think of her body as being like a moibus strip.

I use my tongue to trace a path that never ends.

Yummy.

2:47
I suppose I should write something now. I mean, a little while ago I had such a sudden urge to write that I detoured into Borders to buy a new notebook and pen.

Problem is, I don't really have a topic in mind. Except this one particular topic that nobody cares about except me. One which is definitely XXX rated.

The other problem is, I don't think I like this new notebook very much. It's too small, and the pages have vertical lines as well as horizontal ones.

I'm having flashbacks of the graphing exercises that I had to do in junior high.

Anyway, I'm definitely feeling a strong sense of desperation lately. And I'm pretty sure that I don't like it. Mainly because it's not what I'd expect from myself. It's kinda weird. I'm not desperate for anything in particular. Nope, I'm desperate for something else. Anything else.

Something, anything, other than that which occupies my thoughts about every three minutes.

Yes, I timed the fucker. I was curious.

Because without this elusive something else, I fear that some bad shit is about to happen.

See, I know myself well enough to be able to tell when I'm about to do something stupid, but I don't know myself well enough to have any idea how to prevent it.

I'll use fishing metaphors to describe how my desperation is manifesting itself. Partly because it's fitting, but mostly because I can't think of anything else right now.

For the longest time, I was a spear-fisherman. It was a satisfying life. I didn't get a lot of fish, but the ones I did get were all good. All ones I'd wanted, aimed at.

But sometimes I'd miss. Sometimes it seemed that I'd miss fucking everything. For days or weeks or months or years at a time.

So I always kept a baited hook dangling in the water. My backup plan. Just in case I might get a bite.

Seriously, this fishing crap sounded a lot better in my head.

Oh well, I might as well finish it.

Lately, like for the last couple of weeks, spear-fishing and bait-fishing haven't been working for me. There have been no fish which seemed worthy of a throw and, I've come to realize, the fish who do take my bait are never worth keeping.

So, now, I'll finally get to the fucking point.

For the last couple of weeks, I've found myself doing something different. Something lazy.

Cheating almost.

I've been casting a net.

And I've been catching a lot of fish, but still I'm finding no keepers.

I toss them all back into the water, and I cast my net again.

It's frustrating. I'm starving to death here, but none of the fish I catch are worth keeping.

Maybe next I'll try fishing with dynamite.