For those of you with lives, those of you that don't have the great beers of the world memorized so you can recognize them simply from the bottle, this is Delirium Tremens. One of the world's finest beers.

This is my desert island beer.

And it's fitting that I'm drinking this now, because while I often feel like I am very much alone on an island, this day, with its crowding and its socializing and its obligations, this day magnifies that feeling more than any other. You can be completely surrounded, but if the right person isn't there, you're still alone.

That's an official Delirium Tremens glass, too. I used to have two of these glasses. This one's mate is far away now.

Part of my problem is that I read too much into things. I look for hidden signs everywhere. And not just signs. I have to look for the bad in everything I see. And I keep looking until I find it.

I can take the most heartfelt compliment and twist it into an insult. I can take the simplest greeting and turn it into a goodbye. This is my super power. But I don't use it to ward off evil, I use it to ward off everything and everyone.

Well, almost everyone.

Why, I wonder, can't I ever recognize good for what it is? Why is it that I can immediately see the bad, but when something good presents itself I must transform it into something else?

I dunno. Probably because I'm a dumbass.

So I'm drinking my symbolic beer (379), my second of this night. Later I'm going to have a third. Good thing I'm staying home tonight. After I drink my beers I'm going to go downstairs and shoot some pool. Maybe make some movies if I can remember to turn the camera on.

It's midnight now. November 24th is over. Good riddance.

President Bush's aide said, "Mr. President, I've afraid I have some bad news. Something terrible has happened."

"What's happened?" the President asked.

"There's been an uprising in South America, and over a thousand Brazilian people have been killed," the aide told him.

The president buried his face in his hands for a few seconds as he tried to come to grips with this news. In his head he was already preparing the statement he'd make to offer his sympathies. But he needed more information.

He raised his head and asked his aide, "How many people are in a brazillion?"

When you're concerned about having a nervous breakdown, then merely being irritated all night could almost count as having a good time.

Almost.

Last night was Virtual Friday because of Thanksgiving.

Yay!

The night before Thanksgiving is, traditionally, one of the busiest nights of the year for bars.

Boo!

I've seen bigger crowds at Rich O's, but not very many. I don't think that I've ever seen a more irritating crowd though.

So I didn't do much in the way of socializing. Talked for a while with this one dude who doesn't get a nickname.

To drink, I had a couple pints of Spezial RauchBier (860) then a half-pint of Smithwick's (630).

It was all quite dull. It definitely could have been better. It absolutely could have been much worse.

Well I struggled with this decision for a long time, but finally I made my choice.

I'm not going to write about what this date is. Was. Could have been.

Not because I don't remember, and not because I don't care.

Nope, I'm not going to write about it because that would be a privilege, not a right. And it's a privilege that I haven't been granted.

So I won't be writing a thing.

There's this one chick.

I'm not going to embarrass her by naming her here. She'll know who she is.

I think she's a fantastic writer. I've felt that way since I first discovered her, what seems like years ago, but I wasn't really able to say why I liked her writing so much. I mean, I was physically capable of saying it, and there was never any prohibition against saying it, I just couldn't find the proper words to describe my reasoning.

I may have found the words.

When I first read her journal, for a few joyous minutes, I thought she was someone else. Too quickly, I learned the truth, and I was a little disappointed with that knowledge. I wanted the person I thought she was, I wanted her to be the one writing those beautiful words.

Since then, I've gotten to know the real person behind those flowing phrases and I'm no longer disappointed. I'm blessed, and I'm glad that I was wrong when I thought she was someone else.

But the thing is, even though I know who's really doing the writing, when I read her words they go straight to my heart and, for just an instant, I forget what I know. For just an instant, I imagine that someone else writes those words. Sometimes I even imagine that I write them myself.

Her writing does that for me. It speaks the words that my heart wants to speak, but cannot. Or, it lets my heart hear the words that it's dying to hear, but which would not be spoken otherwise. That's why I think she's a fantastic writer - because her words, once written, don't need her anymore. Her words, once written, go to where they are needed the most, and they give voice to what would otherwise be silent.

Her words fill the silence in my soul with music that it can dance to. Even when it's a sad song, it feels good to dance.

Earlier I was irritated, but now I'm pissed.

Why am I pissed?

It's simple.

I'm pissed about being pissed at myself over my expected reaction to something that isn't going to happen anyway on a day that shouldn't mean a thing to me regarding a girl that shouldn't mean a thing to me.

I'm pre-pissed.

I'm irritated now, but I don't know why. Maybe I just needed a longer nap.

Tomorrow is Friday for us, so that's good, but tomorrow night is also when my stress will peak, or if not then, Friday night. If I make it past Friday night, I should be okay for a while. Like a week maybe, but by then I'll be in Las Vegas.

Monday after work I met up with RealTrainGirl and GreenBeerDude. I had myself a half-glass of Bell's Kalamazoo Stout (155) and then a half-glass of this stuff:

Belhaven Wee Heavy (10)

(draft) This was decent, but there was just something strange about it. Some fruity characteristic that I couldn't identify. There was also a bitterness that came out of nowhere at the finish.

I should probably be more willing to open up to the people that offer to help me. I guess I just don't feel like explaining everything all over again.

I should write something better than this. I hate it when a crappy entry is the first thing people see.

Happy Birthday to my sister Dina!

Sometime, in the next few days, I've got a decision to make.

Nothing Earth-shattering, except to me. It's just one of those things that, if I choose one way, I'll probably regret it for a very long time. But if, on the other hand, I chose the other way, I'll probably regret it for a very long time.

Hence my dilemma.

Of course, I could get lucky. I could die sometime in the next couple of days, thus sparing myself the burden of this impossible decision.

Yes, I'm kidding about the dying part.

A little bit anyway.

This fucking deadline is fast approaching, and yet I continue to procrastinate. This is not the way I used to be. Not the way I want to be. I want to be able to, simply and calmly, weigh the pros and cons of each choice, and then make a choice. Belly up. Be a man. Even if it's nothing more than the proverbial lesser of two evils, it's at least a choice that I make. Even if I choose incorrectly, at least it's an actual decision instead of another fucking cop-out.

This should not be that difficult. Chances are that nobody but me would ever even notice which choice I ended up making. So then why is it so damn hard to fucking decide?

Man, I'm saying fucking a lot in this entry. Hi, Grandma!

Seriously, wtf?