Back in January, I found myself at this bar called The Green Frog in Bellingham, Washington. I'd gone there because some dude at another bar had told me, in a conspiratorial whisper, that they had a better beer selection there. For the record, he wasn't lying. Because (a), they had Ommegang Chocolate Indulgence on tap. And (b), who cares what else they might have had?

Anyway, I was sitting at the bar, minding my own business, trying not to listen to the jug band "jamming" in front, and this chick got up from a booth and sat next to me. She startled me, not only because she reeked of Patchouli, but because she looked almost exactly like SassyGirl. Seriously, for a second there I actually thought it was her.

But no, it was just another damn hippie. In that part of Western Washington, I'd found, it was hard to even take a piss without getting some splatter on a hippie. I'd learned to ignore them, for the most part. Except when they sat next to me and announced, "Your aura is broken."

Great. One of those hippies. One for whom the years of marijuana smoke and patchouli fumes had caused irreparable brain damage. Next, I expected her to offer to "fix" my aura for a nominal fee. Or maybe she'd do it for free, as long as I didn't mind sacrificing a chicken or something.

"I know," I replied. "But I can't do anything about it. The warranty's expired."

"You don't belong here," she said.

"And just where do you think I belong?" I asked, already tired of the conversation.

"Far away," she replied.

"You got that right," I said.

We talked for a few more minutes, mostly about how much she looked like SassyGirl. I even managed to find a picture on my phone to show her. She admitted the resemblance, so she wasn't completely crazy.

But, she was crazy enough, so I was relieved when she went back to join her friends. I haven't really though about her since, until tonight.

Tonight, or this evening to be more accurate, I was at Rich O's. I'd gone before dinner, and then again after dinner. The first time was to see LaptopGirl, and the second time was to glare at my phone.

During that second visit, I realized that I'd eaten way too much food, and that I needed to go home to sleep. So that's what I decided to do. Except I was on my way out the door and this chick looked up at me and then said to her friend, "That guy's aura is broken."

Whoa, right?

So I sat down at their table and said, "Hi, I'm Dave." Brief introductions ensued, and then I continued. "I couldn't help but overhear," I said. "That's the second time in my life that I've heard someone say that my aura is broken. The first time, I dismissed it as craziness brought on by years of marijuana smoke and patchouli fumes. But you don't look the type. So what's your excuse?"

"No excuse," the possible hippie-in-disguise said. "Sometimes I just see things about people."

"Fair enough," I said, because I'm trying to be more open-minded about shit. "What do you see that makes you say my aura is broken?"

"It is broken," she said. "Like it's been ripped apart. And a lot of it is missing. You're here, but you're not all here. Does that make sense?"

"It makes perfect sense," I replied. "A big part of me is missing." I paused. "My heart, to be precise."

"Where did it go?" she asked, with a look of genuine concern on her face. A look that I really appreciated, because I'm really sick and tired of pity and disbelief.

"I think somewhere in Louisville," I replied.

And that was pretty much the end of that conversation, as her husband and/or boyfriend came back from the restroom or wherever and glared at me. I made a graceful exit and went home for a much needed nap.

I dreamed that I was looking for the missing parts of my aura, but they were in Minneapolis, and I got totally lost because the roads up there are totally nonsensical. And the hippie chick from Bellingham was in the car with me, trying to help but only making things worse.

According to a friend of mine, my problems aren't important. Her reasoning for this opinion isn't, as with most people, that they don't exist or that they're unwarranted. Nope, it's simply because other people have worse problems, therefore my own don't exist.

Note that this is not a simple matter of comparing the severity of problems and assigning importance accordingly. It's a total dismissal of any problem as long as someone, somewhere, has a problem that is worse.

A nice example might be, You have no right to be sad about your love-life, Dave, because my other friend has cancer.

That was an actual real-life example, by the way.

Taking this logic to its, um, logical conclusion, I realized something.

Nobody is allowed to be sad or complain. Ever.

Take any person with any problem. There's almost definitely someone out there with a worse problem, so our hypothetical first person isn't allowed to lament at all. He's a dick if he gripes about his kid dying because there's somebody else who had two kids die. And then there's somebody else who had two kids die and he has a hangnail. It goes on and on, until you get to the person with the worst problems in the world.

You might think that the poor sap with the worst problems would be the only one on Earth with free reign to feel sorry for himself. But nope, because there are other people who are dead. Even the poor sap has it better than dead people, so he can't be sad or complain either.

I, of course, disagree with this entire line of reasoning. Maybe that's because complaining and feeling sad are some of my favorite things to do, and they're what I'm best at.

I guess what I'm saying is, just because something else has a bigger problem, that doesn't mean that our own problems aren't important. They're important to us, after all.

Feel better now?

First, a disclaimer.

The existence of this entry means nothing beyond the fact that this entry exists. Please do not infer that now I'm going to be a regular blogger again. Such an inferation* would probably be foolhardy.

This will not last. Only one thing ever lasts, and this, this is pretty much the opposite of that one thing. I am aware that this will not last, yet I choose to write about it anyway. This is one of the perks of having my own blog; I get to choose my own topics. So there.

Right now, as I type this sentence, I have zero hope.

Z.E.R.O.

Also, as a bonus, I have zero expectations.

Once again, Z.E.R.O.

And, to top it all off in a weird way, I have only an infinitesimal amount of desire. And most of that is probably just inertia.

So much has changed, internally and externally. I'm finding myself wondering again. About myself. About this blog.

So, what will I write here?

Only stupid entries like this one, apparently.

What kind of person have I become?

That's a little bit tougher to say. I might be too close to myself to give any kind of objective opinion. RockGirl could probably provide an in-depth diagnosis, but I haven't asked her. I think I'm scared to ask her.

Anyway, I don't think I'm a dick. I was really worried about that. I also don't think I'm a fuckhead, though I've been accused of that. And I'm definitely not a dipshit. I'll never be a dipshit.

I guess, if I had to guess and I guess that I do have to guess, I guess I'm still me. Just a watered-down version with no passion.

That's actually kind of disappointing. I'd hoped to change more.

I suppose it's good that this won't last. I'll have plenty more chances. To be hurt again.

I postulated, back in March when I was almost, but not quite completely driven away, that I had one possible route toward a chance at having a happy life. It wasn't much of a chance - 10 or 20 percent at most - but it was and is certainly better than zero.

The route is simple. Zero contact and zero sightings. That's what it would take to give me my 10-20 percent chance at a happy life. I mean, I've been asked to forget, and I've been asked to stop thinking. How can I do either when reminders are so random and when they occur so often?

Answer: I can't

I do not think that this route of possible happiness exists in the same universe as me. So I expect to have zero chance at ever having a happy life.

Oh well, I guess.

* - I might have just invented that word.