In my little notebook, written between the 10:21 entry and the 10:25 entry from last night, is the following.

Hey asshole! Write about opportunities, golden or otherwise.

Little notes like that one are supposed to be the reason I have that notebook. The only reason. I'm not supposed to use it, as I did in preparing the previous entry, to jot down the incredibly boring minutiae of my life. Nope, it's supposed to be for writing down those ideas and those fleeting inspirations that show up randomly, disappear quickly, and that if stirred and shaken just right might be prove to be worthy of an entire entry.

SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: Except that one time that I wrote an entry about being in a plane while I was actually flying in the thing. That was useful, and it killed some time.

SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: That girl was hot. I wonder what happened to her.

I remember writing that little note about opportunities to myself last night. I remember thinking that it was a good idea for an entry. I do not, unfortunately, remember why I thought it was a good idea. I mean, I must have had something in mind.

I went to Rich O's. I took notes.

9:40
The place is about half-full of strangers. The only person I recognize is CuteBlonde. I sit at the kiddie table and I order a Delirium Tremens (444).

9:44
I'm trying to use my mental powers to make the fucker at the end of the bar realize the futility of his life and leave. He has no beer. He's reading a fucking newspaper. What, they don't have newspapers anywhere else?

9:50
This Tremens is so yummy. I wish it had less alcohol in it.

9:52
I'm supposed to tell people about SassyGirl's party, but she hates even more people than I do.

9:55
I think this fucker is trying to memorize his newspaper.

9:56
CuteBlonde left, so I'm moving to her seat at the bar. It's the wrong end, but it's still better than the kiddie table.

10:00
This one chick keeps looking at me. She might be the same one that tried to pick me up that one night. If so, nice body. If not, still a nice body.

10:10
I'm trying right now to be sad. It's not working.

10:15
Now I'm trying to be happy and that is working. Imagination is a funny thing.

10:16
PaperBoy is finally fucking leaving. Yay! I'm moving my shit to the other end of the bar.

10:20
The secret to being sad is to imagine that you're happy. After a bit, abracadabra, reality shows up like a bull in a china shop.

10:21
I order a Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier (659). They've got the big bottles again. Bigger is better.

10:25
I can imagine those two seconds, lurking somewhere in the future, I can imagine them over and over and over, and it never fails to make me smile.

10:32
Piss time.

10:34
I'm not finished with the Weihenstephaner, but I'm ordering a half-pint of this:

BBC Jefferson's Reserve Bourbon Barrel Stout (10)

(draft) A very dark red. Bourbon aroma is very faint - almost not noticeable. The flavor is a quite mild stout with only the slightest hint of bourbon showing up in the finish. Not too bad.

10:38
Last week I found out that my 'blog had gotten somebody in trouble. This week I could put somebody else into a world of hurt. But I won't.

10:50
I finally remembered to ask about the ABV in this bourbon beer.

10:55
Nobody knows. I'm guessing it's less than 7%.

10:57
After further review, this beer is yummy. I don't know why though.

10:59
Piss time.

11:01
That one slut changed her hair. It looks good, but there's no telling what it will look like once she washes all of the semen out of it.

11:02
I've finished the bourbon beer. Back to the Weihenstephaner.

11:05
A chick just came in that looks like Ella, but not as hot.

11:06
I wish a Natalie or Neela or Rachel clone would come in.

11:09
I miss HatGirl.

11:15
FutureDude has joined me.

11:16
Apparently the bartenders call the island area the "red bar" area. I like mine better.

11:30
Piss time.

11:40
I order a pint of Diet Coke and I buy a Weihenstephaner glass and two bottles of Weihenstephaner. FutureDude thinks that I'm planning to get fucked up tonight.

11:41
Fuck it. I'm going to ask.

11:42
He claims to have no idea what I'm talking about.

11:50
DooRagGirl is here.

12:00
I'm outta here. White Castle sounds good.

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When this is finished, I get to go out.

Not much of a report this time. I didn't even get to Rich O's until 11:45.

There were some strangers sitting in the living room area, and a couple of regulars at the bar. I sat at the island and had a couple pints of Guinness (1197), partly because of the St. Patrick's Day thing, but mostly because the place would be closing soon and I wanted something that wouldn't kill me or get me arrested if I pounded it.

I think that island seat is my favorite seat in the place. When any of my friends are there I usually end up sitting in the throne, but sometimes there's too much pressure to be entertaining over there. I'd rather sit at the island and watch all the other idiots. Failing that, I'd rather sit at the bar with my back to the world.

It was a short but relaxing night. I got to visit the ghost for a while, and then at the very end FutureDude and I talked for a bit. None of the bartenders seemed to care very much that I had to work last night. I wonder why.

At least I did manage to make it out. It had been looking for a while like I was going to have to work all fucking night.

As, apparently, I'm still me and I can't really see any way around that dilemma right now, I'm still doing what I always do.

I pick and poke and I examine and evaluate and I analyze and appraise, and after a while I start to make some sense out of whatever the fuck happens to be wrong with me at that particular point in time.

Because if I can understand it, or failing that at least be able to describe it, then theoretically that puts me one step closer to being able to deal with it.

Theoretically.

Some things are tougher to deal with than others. Some things I've been dealing with for years, and if I've shown any progress at all, I assure you that it's been purely accidental.

The current thing that's wrong with me, this lack of motivation that I've been feeling for the past couple of weeks, this is really a simple thing, with a simple cause.

For what seems like a million years, for what is actually more like a year and a half, I've been running on inertia. The events of late Summer and early Fall of the year 2004 - they gave my heart and my mind a mighty shove. The force of that shove proved to be all that I needed to maintain some semblance of a life. To hang out with my friends. To write in my journal. To leave my house. To breathe.

But now, now that inertia is gone. It's run out. Too many outside forces have acted upon me. Hell, too many inside forces have acted upon me, as I strove to divert myself from the path I was hurtling down, to turn myself around, to at least fucking slow my progress, or maybe even halt it completely.

Careful what you wish for, asshole.

That inertia that served me for so long has gone. Now I've coasted to a stop and I don't know where I am. There are no breadcrumbs to lead me back home. There is no sunrise or sunset to give me a sense of direction. There is just me, and this gray place.

A part of me knows that I cannot stay here. A part of me knows that I need to pick a direction and just start walking. But which direction? They all look exactly the same.

I could end up in an even worse place than before, as unimaginable as that may seem. Believe me, I can imagine a worse place.

I should start walking though. I don't like it here. I should just pick a direction and start moving.

But I can't decide which way to go.

I need a sign. I need a landmark. I need fucking anything that I can point to in the distance and tell myself, that's where I'm going, and I'm closer now that I was yesterday.

I'd scan the horizon for such a landmark, but there's no horizon. There's just me, and this gray place.

I need a sign. Or a shove.

Yeah, I think that a shove would be better. That way if I once again found myself moving in the wrong direction, that way I'd have something to blame besides my own stupid heart.

I tell myself that I want to be shoved, guided, perhaps even carried away from this place. I tell myself that I wish I was moving again. I tell myself that I wish there was a destination in sight.

Careful what you wish for, asshole.

I've lost the desire to do this journal thingy.

I'm sure that this is just temporary.

Unless it's not.

I had a dental cleaning and checkup today.

I've decided that it's a good thing I'm not gay.

My gag reflex is much too strong.

I'd be the most miserable gay guy ever.

She is worth it degrades into I think she is worth it degrades into I hope she is worth it degrades into I doubt she is worth it degrades into She is not worth it.

Okay, so I try a different path, a different goal.

We are worth it.

Shit, that's even worse.

Because anything that includes me forces me to look at things from her perspective.

I am not worth it and no degradation is necessary.