Your heat warms the room.
And yet you're not self-conscious.
You smile, the world stops
To contemplate your beauty.
I don't know how you stand it.

I mentioned to DooRagGirl Friday night that I was going to buy new glasses. She asked me if I was going to buy evil glasses. I don't know what that means. I picture either a monocle or one of those glasses-on-a-stick thingies. I think I'll stay with regular non-evil glasses. Just some that are a little more fashionable than the ones I've had for five years. Maybe some thin rectangular ones.

---

So Saturday afternoon, determined to (a) get off my ass, and (b) leave my house, and (c) actually do something, I went over to Lenscrafters to get some new glasses.

I went in, and looked around at some frames that kinda looked like what I was looking for. A saleslady approached me, and after a bit she told me that I couldn't buy glasses because my prescription was too old. I told her that my vision hadn't changed since the last time I'd bought glasses, but she said that I was in no place to make that determination - her computer said that my prescription had expired.

*sigh*

So I went over to the doctor's counter and filled out the sheet with all of my personal information, then waited for about a half-hour, then got my vision checked. Guess what?

My fucking prescription hasn't changed.

Armed with this new information, I went back to the same saleslady as before. I picked out a frame that I liked - not really rectangular, but moreso than my current pair, and definitely thinner.

This is when the bitch decided to tell me that they were so backed up that anything I ordered today wouldn't be available for pickup until Sunday.

*sigh*

So I told her to suck my dick*, and I left and went to another Lenscrafters, over in Louisville this time.

After about 15 minutes of standing in that store, and being completely ignored, I overheard some people talking. It turns out that you can't get a salesperson to even look at you, let alone help you at this particular store, unless you sign in first.

So I fucking signed in.

About 8 million years later, a salesguy called out my name.

I took him back to the display that had a couple of frames that I liked. I told him that I was hoping that his vast experience would be able to help me choose between them. One frame was more rectangular, and one was more oval. Both were a lot thinner than the glasses I currently wear.

The guy reaches deep inside himself, and calls upon his years of experience and deep knowledge of what frames look good on which people, and said, "Your face is oval, you could go with either frame."

Gee, thanks. Asshole.

Now, this is the part where I started to get pissed. Well, maybe not, but the groundwork for getting pissed was definitely laid at this point.

I picked the more rectangular frames. The guy said that, "With these frames, you have several options."

I swear he used the words "with these frames."

So he started rattling off options about featherweight lenses and scratch-resistance and anti-glare coatings. Eventually he said that I could get the featherweight scratch-resistant anti-glare for $280 with those frames.

I swear that's what he said.

with those frames.

After about another hour, which the salesguy spent typing my information into his computer, he suggested that he should go check and see if the frames that I wanted were in stock.

No shit, Sherlock.

I agreed that he should check, otherwise he was wasting my time.

So the guy comes back and they do have those frames in stock. He starts keying in numbers and eventually announces the total.

Eight zillion dollars.

It turned out that, despite what the fucker had said to me several times, that the cost of the frames was completely separate from the cost of the lenses. So my $149 frames, plus his lenses, added up to eight zillion dollars.

Or it might as well have.

I was not prepared to spend that much. Not so much because of the price, but because of the principle of the thing. It's a pair of glasses, not a new heart or set of lungs.

I told the guy that he'd mislead me, and that eight zillion dollars for some lenses was ridiculous, and that I'd rather stick with my boring old 1990-vintage glasses.

Then I left.

* - I didn't really tell her that, but I thought it.

I took a nap after work yesterday. My sleep schedule has been so messed up all week, I halfway expected to sleep all night long, and that would have been fine with me.

While I was napping I dreamed that my sister Dina had called from Rich O's.

When I woke up I had a voicemail from my sister Dina. She'd called from Rich O's.

Weird. There was more weirdness but I don't feel like writing about it.

So I went down there at about 8:30. It was of course extremely crowded. I stood at the end of the bar and talked to Dina and Kenny and MusicalHippyDude. I had myself an NABC Old Lightning Rod (60).

Dina and Kenny are getting married on May 13th, which is the same day as the brewerania sale that Rich O's has every year. Hopefully it's not also when DaveFest will be going on. Actually I think it'll be okay - the wedding will be in the afternoon.

After Dina and Kenny left I took the seat at the bar that Dina had vacated. Then DooRagGirl came in and right after that some shitheads left the sofa so we went over there.

I spent the bulk of the night talking with DooRagGirl and listening to one of the PBDs rattle on and on and on about things that he knows nothing about. Typical for him - it's the same guy that thinks opossums aren't mammals.

I had another Old Lightning Rod (80).

At one point the conversation took a slightly personal turn, and I found myself hoping that I'd shut up. I didn't have to shut up, as it turned out, because FutureDude got off work so DooRagGirl went over and sat with him and some of the PBDs.

I ordered another Old Lightning Rod, but I only drank half of it (90).

Oh yeah. I talked to EuchreGirl for a short while. I don't think she recognized me as EvilDave.

(response to message)

Will it stop when I reach 100 char. or should I have been counting??

You can always just send me an email. It's daveATbarenadaDOTcom but replace the obvious stuff. There's a link to the right with the same munged address.

(response to message)

No, it wasn't about you. The person it was about does not read my 'blog.

I wonder if she knows that I was just being polite.

I wonder if she realizes that she and I are a complete waste of time, and that we've already wasted enough time. Circling each other for over a year and a half, looking for openings, and finding none, and presenting none ourselves.

I don't know what she's looking for. I don't even know what I'm looking for. But I'm pretty sure that we won't find anything in each other. If there was anything there, we'd have found it by now.

I wonder if she knows that I was just being polite.

I wonder if I'd know if she was just being polite.

I've had lulls before. I don't know why this one is bothering me so much. I don't know why it's killing me that I can't hold a thought in my head long enough to even recognize it, let alone translate it into words.

I hate this. It's what I wanted, it's what I needed, it's what had to be done if I was going to survive, but I hate it. The fact that I had to kill a part of myself to get to this point, that makes me hate it even more.

This entry I've stolen from that other journal, where that part of me which I've murdered used to vent and ramble. This entry was dated September 13th, 2005. The beginning of the end. I liked this entry. I can almost remember what I felt when I wrote it.

Almost.

I had a pretty decent night tonight. One of those sweet sorrow nights that are only enjoyable in contrast. It won't last though. It never lasts.

While I'm sitting here typing this semi-random crap, my cellphone is sitting beside me, on this pullout extension doohickey. Every time a car passes outside a few stray photons from the headlights strike the phone and bounce up into my peripheral vision.

There went another car.

I should move the cursed phone. Or adjust the blinds. Or something. But I haven't done it yet, and I doubt that I will. Every time the light hits my eyes I get a brief spark of hope, quickly followed by a little pang of disappointment. It's like a two-second replay of the past year. Over and over. And over.

The phone's not flashing to indicate an incoming call. You're not calling.

See, this would be the perfect time. I'm not too sad. I'm not doing my anger experiment anymore. I just miss you. I think I could actually have a conversation. Get all this out in the open. Get some fucking closure maybe.

There went another car.

You're not going to call though. I asked you not to. Told you that you were hurting me. That wasn't quite right though. I've been hurting myself. You've just been the weapon of choice. I've been the one wielding it.

Man I'm in a strange mood.

There went another car.

Eventually, I'll have to leave it behind.

But not until I'm sure that it's really dead.