Standing at a little bar at the Cincinnati airport, I heard a voice, or felt a presence, or smelled a perfume. I don't remember what it was, but something happened. Something that made me turn around.

It ended as quickly as it had begun. It might be her it's her no it's not her. Same hair, similar body, but completely different gait and, once I ran out of the bar and caught up with her, a completely different face.

But the damage was already done.

My first public anxiety attack, right there in terminal B. I could barely walk, I couldn't have spoken if the need had arisen. I stumbled my way from the scene of my disappointment to the seats outside my gate, and I shook. I shook until I remembered my rock. I took my rock out of its pocket and rubbed it with my thumb for about ten minutes, and finally I felt better.

---

The plane was completely full. I had the aisle seat, 29D, and there was a hot girl in the center seat. She kept dozing off and leaning against me. Then she'd wake up and apologize, embarrassed for her transgression. I didn't tell her that it was okay for her to touch me, okay not only because she was hot, but also because it felt good to be useful to someone. If my purpose today was merely to be someone to lean against, to be someone who, by my very presence, helped another person get through a tedious journey, well that was fine with me. Better than nothing, which is what I've been lately.

---

Back when I was much younger and much more afraid of flying, I'd catch myself looking around whatever plane I was on, checking out all of the different people, and wondering are these the people I'm going to die with?

We're all such completely different people. Not just the outward differences though those are the most obvious, but the internal differences, formed from our experiences as we go through life. We are all, by definition and by necessity, different.

But put 200 people on a plane, and no matter what they look like or what their backgrounds are, they're all , for a while at least, sharing the same experience. Perceiving it differently, assigning more or less importance to it, paying more or less attention to it, but for that period while they're all sitting in the same tin can hurtling through the same air towards the same distant destination, their experiences - their life paths if you prefer - they merge.

Of course this happens all the time. You people reading this entry, for example, are all sharing the experience. Every day we encounter other people, other completely autonomous beings, and our lives merge for a bit.

I dunno, maybe I'm drunk.

Wednesday I had a brilliant idea.

I'd go to bed at 8:00 and then get up at 4:00. That way, see, I'd be nice and tired Thursday night and I'd have no trouble at all going to sleep. What a great idea.

Not.

So now it's 10:20 Thursday night as I type this sentence. I'm barely tired. I have to get up at 4:00 in the morning.

I guess the good news is that I'm at least packed. Everything except the shit I'll need in the morning like my toothbrush and deodorant.

I'm going to be sooooo wiped out all day tomorrow, but I know from experience that I won't be able to get to sleep until after midnight. And then my stupid internal clock will snap me awake at 3:30 in the fucking morning because of the time zone change.

I guess it's okay. I'd rather be exhausted in Las Vegas than completely alert back here in Indiana.

After work Wednesday, as I said in my last entry, I went to Rich O's to see RealTainGirl.

Checking the board, I saw quite a few beers that looked interesting. One that I'd never heard of before. I asked the owner to describe it, then tried it anyway:

Rogue Honey Cream Ale (4)

(draft) I just had a small sample glass of this, as I was not expecting to like it. I was right. Had that dirty sock aroma that I associate with too many hops. It was very watery tasting, but had sort of a thick mouthfeel. Hard to believe that this comes from Rogue.

There was something strange going on in the red room. Roger was having some kind of private tasting for a bunch of guys in suits. That was odd enough, but the really weird part was that they had a spit bucket! RealTrainGirl and I decided that they were a bunch of pussies.

Since we were enjoying ourselves so much making fun of the spit bucket brigade, I decided to stay for another half pint. At about the time I ordered my Spezial (950) these people came in:

I know, that's a pretty useless picture. That is a picture of a hot girl carrying a microphone, and another hot girl carrying a camcorder. With them, but not pictured, was some dork with a notebook.

They were doing some kind of profile on Rich O's for IUS, the local small college. The hot girl with the microphone interviewed a couple of the after-work PBDs, then she came over and interviewed me for a bit. She could tell that I was interview-worthy because I was sitting on the throne.

I showed great restraint by actually looking her in the eyes instead of at her chest. The concentration needed for this, unfortunately, also prevented me from saying anything funny. RealTrainGirl was clearly disappointed that I hadn't used my camera time to poke fun at the bucket brigade.

See, this is what happens when I forget my rock. I end up on TV or something. If I'd had my rock then it could have been on TV too.

I overslept this morning and, in my rush to get out the door, I forgot my rock.

This is the first time I've been further than ten feet from my rock since I got it.

I feel very guilty.

Plus, I'm going to Rich O's after work to see RealTrainGirl, so my guilt will only increase.

I bet my rock never speaks to me again. It could be a long and uncomfortable week in Las Vegas.

Like a needle stuck in the groove of an old album, my thoughts keep playing the same old tune.

I keep hearing this song, but it just doesn't move me the way it used to. It only irritates me as it inserts its relentless beat into the sounds of my world.

It used to be my favorite song.

I found, after many months, a way to stop the flood of emotion running through me. I find that I end each day just a little bit more content than I'd been the day before. I can pretty much pass for a normal person now, at least to those around me.

These feelings are still there. I know they are, because I can still feel the pressure as they boil away at my insides. I contain them, for now at least, but no matter how much I try I cannot contain my thoughts. My thoughts are the same as they've always been. Over and over and over again, just like the song.

These thoughts continue because of simple inertia. And unless I can do something about the vacuum through which they travel, they might continue forever. Like a needle stuck in the groove of an old album, they'll keep playing this song because they're incapable of playing anything else.

Clicking the image pops up a larger version.

So I'm sitting on my couch, watching tonight's episode of Las Vegas.

A normal Monday night, but not a normal show. I haven't finished watching yet, but I half expect it to turn out to be a dream episode or something.

Anyway, Ed has these Cuban cigars that they found on the floor after a fight, and he takes them out of this little case. Inside the case is a piece of paper. On the paper is written:

022065

The day I was born.

I have no idea what this might mean, but I think it's pretty cool.

Something's been bothering me lately.

No, I mean something besides that. Okay, maybe it's related to that.

Ask any woman that's been with me - I'm a pretty good person. I mean I am now, and I have been for the past fourteen years or so. I treat women with respect and affection, just the way I'm supposed to, but not because I'm supposed to. I do it because it's the way I want to be treated myself.

I'd bet, right now, that I could call up anyone I've dated since my divorce and have a nice friendly conversation. Nobody would just hang up upon hearing my voice. Nobody would cuss me out. Nobody would cry.

There's no trail of broken hearts behind me. There's no We Hate Dave club that all of my old girlfriends belong to and have meetings where they sit around making fun of my genitals. There's no www.daveisanasshole.org website devoted to bashing me around and warning women about me and my issues.

Even the most painful breakups, such as the most recent one, even that was all let's be friends and call me if you ever want to talk and you never know, maybe someday we'll try again.

I'm a pretty nice guy, as far as ex-boyfriends go.

Maybe too nice.

What I'm wondering right now is, if I'd made breaking up with me more difficult, would any of those relationships have lasted?

I don't know the answer.

I think about her, so stubborn. So determined to have another chance with me, then she just walked away. That old let's not ruin our friendship excuse turned out to be the most honest thought she'd ever had about me. And, because I felt the same way, I let her go.

I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't made it so easy for her to leave that night. I wonder what would have happened if I'd been a real dick about it? Should I have been less of a friend, and that way there'd have been less of a friendship to ruin?

Maybe I take the words boyfriend and girlfriend too literally. These girls are all still my friends, but they're no longer anything beyond that. Maybe I should stop letting friendship trump everything else. Maybe that's why I'm sitting here alone.

If you're just going to tell me that I'm right, I already know that.

If you're going to claim that I'm wrong, then you are an idiot and I don't care what you think.