Starting tomorrow, you people might have to get along without me for a while.

Now, I'm not going to pull a Natalie, and disappear for a million billion gazillion years, but it could be as long as four days.

Some of you may know that I'm a fairly serious pool player. Well, that seriousness leads me, every year at about this time, to spend some of my hard-earned money and some of my precious time and compete in the Derby City Classic. This is actually a series of tournaments held in Louisville.

My specialty is Bank Pool, and that's the event that I participate in. But even more important than that, I attend the thing and I get to spend several days with other pool players. Pool players are even better than beer snobs as far as I'm concerned.

So I don't know if I'll be updating here between Friday morning and Tuesday. My intention is to update my pool 'blog during this time, and then if there's any time and energy left, I'll update my regular 'blog.

There'll probably at least be a Thursday beer report, as tonight is virtual Friday for me. Yay!

You know what pisses me off?

Besides everything, I mean.

There was a time when I could just sit down here and start typing, and words would string themselves together on my screen in a way that actually made a little bit of sense. To me anyway. I had so much inside me back then, things that were dying to get out. It took less effort to write than it would have taken to keep things contained.

Now, not so much.

I used to have things that I needed to write. Now I've just got things that I want to write. Before, all I had do to was loosen the grip on myself just a little and all of my thoughts and emotions would just start flowing out through my fingers. Now, I have to make an actual effort. And then I see what I've written and I'm like, was that even worth it?

Usually, it's not.

Like this entry right here.

This is just some extra crap I thought of in the shower this morning.

That's right - I was totally naked when I thought this stuff up.

Naked!

I asked for this. I actually begged and pleaded and struggled and fought for this. This is what I wanted. This is what I needed. If I keep telling myself these things, do it often enough and for a long enough period of time, then maybe I'll stop fucking whining about it so much.

If I'd just let myself go, and stop overthinking things so much, I bet I'd be a lot happier. I'd probably be an asshole, but I'd be a happier asshole.

I love women. I love the way that every line of their body is a curve, never beginning, never ending. Just curves, always leading to somewhere beautiful. I love the way they smell. I love the way their jeans fit. I love the way their eyes tell you everything you need to know about them.

The best night of my life? Easy. July 15th, 1995. I spent the entire night with my dad at his little camper out in the country. Sitting on his deck, drinking cheap beer, and talking about life and love and everything. Talking like friends instead of like father and son.

The worst night of my life? Easy. October 9th, 2004.

It's almost 2:00 now. This beer has taken longer to drink than I'd thought it would. I suppose that I should try to get some sleep now. I hope I don't dream.

I hate this. I hate this doubt and this insecurity and this fear. I fucking hate it all. But what I hate the most, what I hate more than anything else, is that it's all coming from inside my own treacherous self, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

I often wondered, what will all this pain look like, when I finally can look at it from the outside? I know now what it looks like, and it's not very pretty. I think that, in some ways, being surrounded by it and overwhelmed by it was actually preferable to this, to this detachment that's become my crutch lately. At least back then, I felt like I was a part of something special, something unusual. Now, not so much.

I think about a couple of my friends who've recently started reading my 'blog. I try to keep things light for them - but not too light. I want to come off as neither a lunatic nor as a child. This is easier said than done. Especially when I'm both. I want to come off as insightful at times, and as brilliant at others. This is easier said than done. Especially when I'm neither.

I've begun to seriously doubt that I'll ever regain the ability to just shut the fuck up. I used to be such a quiet person, especially when it came to my feelings. But that was easy when I had none. Now I'm sort of like a born-again Christian. It's not enough for me to marvel at my own transition. I have to shout about it to the world. Some things I should whisper first, just to see how they sound. Just to see who listens.

What is the proper response when a reader completely misinterprets one of your metaphors? Should you gently correct them so that they may experience your words as you intended, or should you let them keep their delusions and be glad that your words have meaning to someone - even if it's not the meaning you intended?

I had a dream a while ago. A nightmare actually. I started to write about it, but I never finished. Even now, I cannot think about it long enough to describe it. It tears at me, and haunts me from inside my soul, and I'm afraid that by describing it, I'll relive it.

I'm at such a fucking pivotal point right now. In my life, in my work, in my journal. In everything. I sometimes think I could toss it all away and start fresh, but then I remember that it'd still be the same old me, so why bother?

I analyze things too much. Especially those things that are beyond analysis. You'd think that I would have learned my lesson You'd think that I'd just let my heart run the show. After all, what has by brain done for me lately?

If this ends the same way it ended last time, at least I know that I'll get through it.

One of those stupid nights for me.

I let my nap run on for too long, so now it's after midnight and I'm not even close to being tired. Not that I've been sleeping very much during normal hours anyway. Just having the option would be nice.

Not tonight though. Not for a while at least.

I've pulled a bottle of Alaskan Smoked Porter from my fridge, and so I'll enjoy this, one of my favorite beers, for probably the next hour. After that, who knows?

Maybe I'll sleep, and then maybe I'll snap awake in the middle of the night, as I did last night, and stare at my ceiling until I can't stand it anymore, then I'll get up and check my e-mail or something.

Perhaps I'll have one of those dreams again. One of those dreams that annoy the shit out of me because she isn't in it, but somebody else is. Somebody that I have no business dreaming about.

Maybe I'll pick up my phone, and twirl it through my fingers.

Or maybe I'll just sit here and type random boring crap until my alarm goes off in the morning.

The problem is, I think I'm running out of road here.

It feels like I've been on it forever. I never cared where it led me, as long as it was far from my starting point. As long as I could finally get to a place where all I saw behind me was the road, and everything else was hidden by the distance and the time through which I'd traveled.

I really should have thought ahead a little.

Now this road is ending, and I don't know what to do next.

Sometimes I think that maybe I should just turn around and walk back the other way.

It's not the destination that matters, it's the journey.

Isn't that the saying?

Some crap like that, anyway.

Not much to report, but I want to put something out there, so I will.

Last night, SassyGirl called to remind me that (a) They're trying to make Mondays into Gay Night at Rich O's, and that (b) I'd been named an honorary gay and was therefore expected to attend.

I told her that I'd think about it. I spent some time trying to come up with an excuse that would be better than but I have to work tomorrow and I wasn't having much luck. I thought to myself that if HatGirl was going to be there I'd definitely go.

Two seconds later, my phone rang. It was HatGirl, wondering if I was going to Rich O's. I told her of course I was.

So I went.

In an attempt to force myself to not spend the entire night at Rich O's, I went for the strong stuff right off the bat. My Delirium Tremens (389) was delicious.

As I said, not much to report. SassyGirl, SassyBoy, and several of their friends were there, and they pretty much just talked to each other. HatGirl was there, and she spent most of her time talking with some old bald dude while I wished that I was old(er) and bald.

My second (and last) beer was a half glass of Bell's Kalamazoo Stout (215). It was also yummy. By the time I finished it, SassyGirl had vanished, and HatGirl had gone home.

Just when I was ready to leave, SpikeBoy came in, so I spent a few extra minutes catching up with him. I'm pretty sure that I told him some stuff that I shouldn't have told him. Hopefully, he's better at keeping his mouth shut than I am.

He couldn't be worse.