Go here and read it. Add one to any mention of the number of years. It's been six years now. The sixth of at least six-million, I believe.

It would be funny if, instead of taking Nugget to the vet, I put the dead possum in the cage and took it instead.

Then when they went to take "Nugget" out of the cage, I could act all outraged that (a) he'd only been there a few minutes, yet (b) they'd already killed him AND (c) turned him into a possum.

Maybe I could sue them and get lots of money.

I'm going to be so pissed at myself someday.

Someday, I'm going to feel like rummaging through my old memories and emotions. I'm going to, after some token resistance in case anyone is watching, zip straight to what's left of this blog and to these years. 2008, 2009, 2010.

And, once there, I'm going to find nothing but feeble ramblings of a man so torn-up that even breathing was an effort; writing coherent words was way beyond the realm of possibility even if self-censorship hadn't appeared out of the gray and stopped my fingers from doing the type-type-typing that they've always wanted, needed, to do.

I am a writer, dammit! I have things to say! Important things! Why have I stayed so silent for so long?

It was two years ago last Tuesday that I finally opened my mouth. Finally said the words that I'd waited either three or four or forty-three years (depending on how you count them) to say. That should have been the last day of my life, or the first day of my life. But, instead, it was just another day. Just another fucking day.

What should have been the end, continued. What should have been the beginning, stopped in its tracks. I entered limbo. And though I've tried to leave, my path has been blocked. And, though I've been shown the door, I've been unable to exit.

I'm still here. Stuck between a place I don't want to be and a place I can't imagine leaving. And I watch everything dissolve slowly around me, and I want to cry out. I want to scream so loudly that my bones flee my body in terror, but I don't know what to say.

"Hurry up! Good riddance!"

"No, wait! I need more time! Just a little longer!"

I used to always say, when I was asked, that it was never all or nothing for me. I meant those words when I said them; they were the absolute truth.

But I haven't been asked in a long time, and I'm not sure what my answer would be now.

It's the not knowing that's the cruelest blow of all. It should never have come to this. I should have died knowing, or I should have lived knowing.

Instead, I just don't know.

I didn't write this. I found it on the internet:

An old Cherokee was teaching his grandchildren about life.

He said to them, "A battle is raging inside me ... it is a terrible fight between two wolves. One wolf represents fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego. The other stands for joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, friendship, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."

The old man fixed the children with a firm stare. "This same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other person, too."

They thought about it for a minute and then one child asked his grandfather, "Which wolf will win?"

The old Cherokee replied: "The one you feed."

...we're looking for someone who can adopt a cat with feline leukemia.

Picklepie is incredibly sweet and has no symptoms, but he'll need to stay indoors and away from other cats for the rest of his life. He may develop symptoms in the future and require a very tough decision to be made.

A decision that neither of us wants to make right now.

I can't keep him in my house because I already have two cats and I don't want them to be infected if they're not already. I can't keep him outside because then he's a risk to any other cats he might encounter.

We're really in a bind here. We need to find someone who loves cats and is willing to adopt Picklepie and give him as happy a life as he can have.

I will take care of all shots and neutering if we can only find him a good home.

He's really a great cat, and he will happily return all the love he's given.

I had this thought a little while ago. Maybe it was more of a remembrance than a thought. I'm not sure. My memory of what it was is fading quickly.

I'm surprised all the time lately. Usually not in a good way, but not always in a bad way, either. Just surprised.

I mean, for example, I wake up one morning and I'm forty-five years old. How the fuck does that happen?

Or, I wake up several hundred mornings, and I'm by myself. She's not with me. And you can define she however you want, it makes no real difference. I'm still waking up by myself.

It's shocking, that's what it is.

It's not supposed to be like this. I'm not supposed to be like this.

And now I've got rabies from this damn cat.

Surprise!

But I digress. Rabies will do that to you, I've heard. Makes you digress all over the place.

My life goes through cycles. Never about me, always about someone else. Fuck you, it varies. It really does. Of course I miss LaptopGirl, but then I miss HatGirl, and then I miss MixedSignalGirl with an intensity that still shocks me after all these years. Then for a while I'll miss KittenDamsel, and then I'll almost certainly give StupidGirl her due. It's always about missing someone. It's never about just being sad for no reason at all. Or, God forbid, being happy.

It's never about just being myself.

I'm not sure that I have a life of my own anymore.

When I was a little kid, my future seemed set in stone except for that small detail of her face. Now usually I feel that her face is certain, but everything else is murky and indistinct. Grasping at phantoms that don't really exist.

I liked having a future, even one that improbable. It was something, dammit. Now, nothing.

I don't like it.

Surprise!

I feel like I should start living for myself. But then I remember that there's no point in doing that. Because, who the fuck am I?

I think I'm going to go to Rich O's in a bit. Maybe I'll eat there, or eat at Wendy's on the way. I don't think I've eaten since Thursday evening.

I'm irritated because there's no weird feeling that I'm home. I woke up a few times last night, and it felt like I'd never even left. I was just home because that's where Ilive and in my bed because that's where I sleep and alone because that's how my life is. Usually the feeling of wow, I'm back home and it feels weird will last at least a day or two. Not this time.

My neck still hurts. I foobared it bad the other night, I guess. This morning I took a long shower with hot water pouring on my neck, and it didn't help.

Okay, so I had a wonderful, fantastic time in Las Vegas. It may seem like an obvious foregone conclusion to some of you, but not to me. There were several million doubts in my mind.

Every one of my doubts evaporated at approximately 3:00 PM PDT Sunday.

This leads me to an observation.

I should have been there already. I should have been there almost 18 months ago, when every reasonable reason I'd ever had for staying put was ripped from me.

Why, why wasn't I already there?

Well, those of you who (a) have been reading this journal or (b) listening to the words that have been coming out of my mouth, and (c) aren't retarded - you people already know the answer to that question.

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I've deleted the remainder of this entry. There was nothing nice in any of it.