They keep saying on the radio how they're hopeful that Barbaro can have a career as a stallion.

Having held that job for a while, I can say that it's not all it's advertised to be. And I can't imagine that mares are much less demanding than human women.

Also, wouldn't the offspring of a horse that shatters its leg in three places, simply because it was running, be worth about the same as, I dunno, something else that's obviously useless?

I'm just saying.

There are maybe three people on Earth that can hurt my feelings.

I'm one, and neither of the others are you.

So you can keep playing your little game if you want, but only if you really enjoy making an ass out of yourself.

Just trying to keep this old engine running for a little while longer, that's all.

If it sputters and stalls, I'm afraid that I'll never get it started again.

I hate that commercial.

You know, the one where that chick asks about windows that her uncle bought five years ago for $189. She wants to know how much they are now, and she's told that they're still $189.

She splashes her panties she's so excited.

What a fucking stupid bitch.

What she doesn't seem to realize is that (a) her uncle got ripped off, and (b) she's about to get ripped off.

If the fucking things were so overpriced five years ago that they're still the same price, then why does she find it reasonable to assume that said price is now all of a sudden a good one?

It's like they told her, "Sure we robbed people for years, but you're just in time for this new honest-price thing we're trying. It's your lucky day!"

I hate her. I hope she buys a zillion of the damn windows and then has no money left for crack and has to suck the assholes of homeless people just to get something to eat and she has to blow old men on holiday from the old folk's home for spare change so she can buy more crack every six months or so.

I need times like this.

Because the cold hard fact is that, no matter how much I protest, I am getting better.

These days, these days I have to force myself to be sad. I have to invent elaborate lies. Lies which I then allow myself to believe because I know that when those lies evaporate my mood will plummet.

I do this because I need proof. Proof that it was all real. Proof that it's still real because I know that as soon as I stop believing in it - it will cease to exist.

Fuck that, I say.

Because as soon as this stops being real, that's when I'll know that I've truly wasted so much of my time, so much of myself, for nothing.

It was not nothing.

It is not nothing.

Read my words. Look into my eyes.

All the proof you need is there.

This entry brought to you by Rogue Chocolate Stout:

So I'm clearly losing my grip on reality here.

Not that it was ever that tight to begin with, but I can feel it slipping away from me a lot more lately.

Eventually it will slip away completely, fall to the ground and shatter at my feet. Probably cut me and give me tetanus in the process.

I have such a convenient memory. Such a nice fancy pair of rose-colored glasses. Such a fucking idiotic way of seeing only what I want to see and completely ignoring anything that doesn't fit into these delusions that I use instead of hope.

I should be dead, you know. For a while I thought that the fact that I'm still alive might be a sign that I'm actually getting better. That maybe this long dark Winter was coming to an end.

Hell, I've even managed to convince myself, for short periods of time, that it was all nothing more than overblown hysteria.

But then I look at this picture that I've found. To be fair, the resemblance is fucking uncanny. Her own mother would look at this picture and smile because her daughter looks so pretty in it.

Problem is, it's not her daughter.

It's nobody at all. Just a pretty girl. Just a pretty brunette with glasses who would completely freak out if she knew that, right now, I'm looking at her picture and my eyes are filled with tears.

It's not her I'm looking at. It's not her I see. I'm looking at a fake. An imposter who from that angle, under that lighting, with her expression just that way, coincidentally happens to look like someone else.

But do I care that she's a fraud? Fuck no. My mind won't accept the truth enough for me to care.

That picture is the best link I have to a past that never really existed. To a future that will never happen. I guess it's fitting that it's a fake.

Besides, Beggars can't be choosers, right?

So I'm a little late with this entry. Been doing laundry all day long.

And, I'm sorry to say, this entry is not really worth the wait.

It was a pretty dull night.

I arrived late, a little after 9:00. The first thing I noticed was that the loser area was packed. The second thing I noticed was that it was EwokGirl and her entire posse. So I said a quick "Hey" to her and then moved on.

In Rich O's proper, the entire living room area was full of strangers, and WomanRepellant was sitting at the bar.

That was it.

So I ordered myself a Cone Smoker (1806) and sat at the bar myself. WomanRepellant was eating, so not very good company, so I moved over to the island. The bonus to this move was that I was able to see if the girl I'd seen sitting on the loveseat was as hot as that first glance had hinted.

Ehhhh.

After WomanRepellant finished eating he moved over to the island with me. Then, after a while, CoffeeDude came in and joined us.

And that was it.

I don't think anyone came or left Rich O's proper for the rest of the night except EwokGirl, who came in to say goodbye to me, and this one flaming guy with two hot girls in tow. They came in and laughed at something in the red room then walked back out.

Let's see, my second beer was an Avery The Reverend (90) which I've promoted to yummy status.

At about 10:30 or so I started text-messaging people I was so bored. Nobody replied. That's kind of sad.

My third, and final beer was a Rogue Hazelnut Brown Nectar (75), but I only drank half the glass.

And that was it.

It's been a pretty fantastic weekend here, weather-wise.

I realized this fact yesterday, after RockGirl's incoming email woke me up at the crack of noon, and I made the momentous (for me anyway) decision to (a) get off my ass, (b) leave my house, and (c) maybe even go someplace.

But where?

Why, Madison, Indiana of course.

But why?

Because they were having some festival or such and the NABC had a booth and they had Cone Smoker with them. And, you know, if there's anything better than drinking a Cone Smoker, it would have to be drinking a Cone Smoker in Madison.

Right?

So, basically, it gave me something to do. It also gave me a reason to take my new digital camera.

I've never been to Madison. It's about an hour up river from New Albany. I took the "scenic route" which so-named, as far as I can figure, because it's curvier than the other route.

After I'd driven for 45 minutes or so, my phone started vibrating. It was Awesome Larry, an old pool-playing friend from Omaha. So I pulled off into this ice cream place and talked with Larry for 15 minutes or so.

I know, this is boring.

When I was almost to Madison, I passed the entrance to Clifty Falls State Park. Hey! I didn't know that was by Madison! I'd gone there once as a kid with Boy Scouts or something and I remembered that it had been pretty cool, so I postponed going to the festival thingy, turned around, and went into the park.

I paid $5 to get in. I think I want my $5 back.

When I was a kid we'd been able to climb these stairs all the way down into the canyon. Then we'd been able to actually walk behind the falls. It was awesome.

Remember that scene from "The Last of the Mohicans" where they're all behind that waterfall while the bad guys are chasing them? It used to be kinda like that, except without as much water, and without people in funny wigs shooting at you.

But that was then. It was very cool.

Now, it's pretty much the exact opposite of cool.

Now, you can't do shit.

The stairs leading down to the base of the falls are gone. As near as I can tell the only ways to actually see the falls are to either jump and get a good look before you splatter onto the rocks, or hike approximately 8,764 miles up though the creek.

No thanks.

* drumroll *

And now, without further delay, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Clifty Falls!

What's that? You can't see shit?

Okay, I'll move over to the left and zoom in a little.

And that's all you can see. The falls are like 60 feet tall but you can only see the first few feet, and even that I don't think is the real falls.

It's not even impressive enough to make you want to pee.

So I didn't pee. I just left.

On the way back out of the park I stopped at this one overlook place and took a couple of pictures to test out the 12x optical zoom on my camera. Here's the normal shot:

And here's the zoomed shot:

Pretty cool. If there was a naked chick over there by that thingy, I'd totally be able to see her boobies!

But there were no boobies to be seen, so I left the park and continued my original journey into Madison.

This was the street down by the river where this festival was supposed to be going on. There were about 50 people there. I stopped by the beer tent and had a Cone Smoker (1796) in a plastic cup and talked to Roger.

Then I drove back home.

All in all, I'd say that the day was more interesting than doing laundry would have been, but not by much.

I have the weirdest alarm clock ever.

Normal alarm clocks don't always work with me. I still manage to sleep through them far too often.

For a while I was able to use the alarm function in my cellphone. So great was my fear that I'd miss a call from you know who, any noise whatsoever coming from that phone would find me springing out of bed. So I set the alarm noise to the same ring as the incoming call noise.

But after a zillion years of disappointment, I started sleeping through that noise as well.

Lately, and when I say lately I mean for the last several weeks and maybe even months, I've come to rely on a novel new way to know when it's time to get up. At least on the weekends. On weekdays I seem to be on my own.

What happens on the weekends is that, 700 miles away from me, a girl writes me an email. She writes me an email, and I wake up.

Doesn't seem like it would be possible, does it? I mean, even if she was really pounding the shit out of those keys I shouldn't be able to detect it from more than maybe 30 yards or so. Certainly not 700 miles.

I don't know how it works. I just know that it does. When my friend RockGirl sends me an email, I'm up within 5 minutes of when she hits the send button. Sometimes it's 5 minutes before, so that gives me time to get myself a drink and take a piss and shake some of the cobwebs out of my head. Sometimes it's 5 minutes after and so I postpone those usual morning activities until after I've read the message.

It's a nice way to wake up, that's for sure.

...and I have proof.

After I got home from Madison this afternoon, after I finished my dinner, I went downstairs to shoot some pool.

And I tripped over this:

Luckily, I seem to have killed it by tripping over it. Otherwise I'd have had to move out of my house.

I dropped the pool ball on it just in case.

Yep, it's dead.

Now I have to find my shovel so I can dispose of the thing.