Seems that every night at about this time I find myself sitting here. Trying to come up with something to write.

I don't know why it's so important to me that I write something every day. It's just something that I've done lately. Like for the past year or so.

If I don't write something tonight, I predict that the Sun will still rise in the morning. People will go on with their lives, I'm pretty sure.

Is this enough for today? Does this even count as writing something?

It should. That writing contest was won with an entry, a wonderfully written one, about a writing contest. If that can happen, then me writing about writing should at least count as writing.

I have three problems here.

Problem the first. I've got nothing.

Problem the second. When I do get something I don't want to write about it.

Problem the third. When I do get something and I do want to write about it, I find that whatever creative juices I've possessed have dried up.

Being creative would be a lot easier if I were a painter. You should see some of the crap they have hanging on the walls at work. One giant atrocity has sixteen chickens arranged in a checkerboard pattern. Another looks like somebody took a real painting and sprayed it with a garden hose for a week.

My favorite, my favorite though is get this - a huge (8'x8') square with blue on top and gray on the bottom. At the bottom of the canvas, on a little brass thingy, it says "Untitled."

No shit, Sherlock.

Hey, I have a title! You could call it "I can't paint for fuck." Or maybe "This may be pointless but at least it's big." I think, however, that the title the artist was really going for was "You may not be smart enough to understand this, but trust me, it's art." It's the Emperor's new clothes, in canvas form.

Painters have it so fucking easy. Even the more traditional works, the ones that contain actual scenes - they're worth a thousand words, right?

A good writer with a thousand words is just getting started. A great writer will say more in a single paragraph than the greatest painting could ever say.

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd. - William Shakespeare

Okay, this has to count as writing something. I quoted Shakespeare. I said "fuck." This has to be enough. What else could you possibly ask for?

Stolen from empressotterpop

Well davethepa has inspired me to have a drink and write something intelligent.

Step one: Have a drink.
Status: In progress. I'm drinking a glass of my precious Baltika 6 (253).

Step two: Write something intelligent.
Status: Undetermined.

I'm feeling a little drained today. I've spent some time thinking about things that, in all honesty, would probably best be forgotten. Things that, until recently, I simply couldn't think about without my memory quickly degrading into a mess of confabulation and self-pity.

I was thinking about a day last Fall. On that day I learned that pain is relative. That sometimes feeling a little bit of pain can be a wonderful thing. Like when you've spent the past two weeks in complete misery. When you're flying to another city, and sort of hoping that the plane will crash, then five hours later your pain is eased. Not erased. Just eased. But you don't care about the pain that's left, because you know that it could be a lot worse. That it was a lot worse.

I learned that lesson last Fall, then I almost immediately forgot it.

But this is not what I wanted to write about.

What I wanted to write about was how, when I think about that day, specifically about that two minute conversation, I remember everything.

Everything.

I remember what I was wearing.

I remember that the magazine on the table in my room had a picture of a showgirl on the cover. A girl that looked like my sister Dina.

I remember that I let the phone ring three times before I answered it, and that I waited three seconds before I said "Hello."

I remember that there was traffic in the background, behind her voice. I heard a horn honk. Twice.

I remember that I lit a cigarette, then realized that I already had one lit.

I remember every word that we said.

I remember putting the phone down on the table.

I remember starting to laugh.

Why my brain has decided to store all of these details, I have no idea. I'm not normally possessed of such a memory. That day, that conversation, they were certainly important, but c'mon. I remember how she stressed each syllable when she spoke. Almost perfect iambic pentameter. What possible good does that memory do me?

Now don't get me wrong. I'm glad that I remember. It was important after all. I don't want to forget, and I don't think I ever will.

But is remembering that a couple walked down the hall outside my room discussing their plans to go see Mystere that night really more important than remembering what I did with the fucking registration sticker for my truck?

Stolen from Cawfee

1. When you look at yourself in the mirror, what's the first thing you look at?
I dunno, my face?

2. How much cash do you have on you?
Maybe $80.00, then about eleventy gillion in change on top of my dresser.

3. What's a word that rhymes with "TEST"?
Best.

4. Favorite plant?
I'm a guy. Plants are irrelevant.

5. Who is the 4th person on your missed call list on your cell phone?
My sister Dina.

6. What is your main ring tone on your phone?
The default one that came with the phone.

7. What shirt are you wearing?
White t-shirt.

8. Do you "label" yourself?
Stupid question. Next.

9. Name brand of your shoes currently wearing?
Just socks.

10. Bright or Dark Room?
Dark.

11. What do you think about the person who took this survey before you?
She's probably hot.

12. Do you know what an 8-track is?
Duh.

13. What were you doing at midnight last night?
Erasing drivel.

14. What did your last text message you received on your cell phone say?
"R u at rich os"

15. Do you ever click on Pop-ups or banners?
Nope.

16.What's a saying that you say a lot?
Why can't they come up with original questions for these things?

17. Who told you they loved you last?
Does it count if they take it back right away?

18. Last furry thing you touched?
My cat Nugget is in my lap right now.

19. How many hours a week do you work?
I try to keep it at forty.

20. How many rolls of film do you need to get developed?
It's the digital age now, haven't you heard?

21.Favorite age you have been so far?
Favorite age, I dunno. My happiest age, 27.

22. Your worst enemy?

I hate this one guy, but I don't think he hates me back. Does that count?

23. What is your current desk top picture?

24. What was the last thing you said to someone?
I said "thanks" to this chick at the grocery store after work.

25. If you had to choose between a million bucks or to be able to erase all of your regrets, what would you choose?
A million doesn't go as far as it used to, but I think I'd take it. My regrets help make me who I am.

No pressure. That's the saying, right?

I hope so, because that's what I've been saying to myself all day. Not as a suggestion, or as encouragement, but as a simple observation.

You readers, you might find it hard to believe, reading some of the bullshit I've written, but it was nothing nothing nu-uh-uh-thing compared to what I held in. Those of you unfortunate enough to know about my other 'blog, you may have an even harder time believing it, but I held back there too. A lot.

You see, if I hadn't held anything back, if I'd just unclenched and let loose, my writing would have looked quite different. I think it would have looked something like this:

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!

The pressure that I put on myself to just shut the fuck up already was almost, but not quite, enough to keep me in check. To keep private thoughts where they should be. In my head. Instead of spewed all over creation.

I guess I got lucky. I managed to get 500 visits today to barenada.com, and the only price I had to pay was to die inside. That, plus whatever dignity I had. Oh yeah, and a special friend, or whatever the fuck she was. Mustn't forget her. That would just be so wrong.

It's quite strange to be pressure-free. Is that supposed to be hyphenated? I can never remember? I looks better with the hyphen than without, so I'll leave it in until someone corrects me.

But I digress.

No pressure.

No pressure telling me to feel a certain way about a certain person. No pressure telling me to stop feeling a certain way about another certain person. I can, for the first time in a very long time, feel whatever the fuck I want to feel.

And what do I choose to feel, having finally been granted this gift of freedom, after months of torture?

You should know this. You've been reading me religiously, right?

Right?

Fine. The answer is: Absolutely nothing.

Okay, maybe there's something there. Let's play.

Get one of those Nerf basketballs. I'll wait while you find or purchase one...

...

Got it? Okay, now smoosh it up in your hand until it's as small as it can be. Go ahead, cram it in your hand. Use your fingers of your other hand to push it in even tighter.

Doesn't look like much, does it? I mean, it wouldn't look like much if you could see it, but you can't because it's all squished in your hand. Just imagine it, okay? While you're at it, imagine how it would feel, being squeezed so tightly. Put yourself in its place. Be the ball.

Now this is the fun part.

You're the ball. You're under all this pressure. Now, open your hand, but continue to be the ball.

Did you see that? Did you feel that?

The damn thing expanded like a, uh, uh, like something that expands! It may be a little misshapen now, but in a few minutes it will be as good as new.

Oh, yeah. You can stop being the ball now if you want.

Remember how, like three sentence ago, you were being the ball while it expanded so quickly? Remember? Wasn't that cool?

That's what I felt the other morning, when the pressure finally left me.

And remember how the ball expanded almost back to it's original shape while you were still being the ball?

That's the way I feel right now.

Was Geisel a great writer?
Perhaps, in his own way.
But all his subjects ever did,
was sing and dance and play.

I doubt that he'd have done as well
with more realistic themes.
Like that cat being hit by a car,
or getting raped up the ass by one of those damn brats.

So I just deleted about 100 lines of drivel. Usually I post the drivel, but this time I changed my mind after I fell asleep while reading it.

Change blah blah apprehensive blah blah blah choices blah blah.

This morning I stood next to a waterfall, and so of course now I have to take a piss.

I like using the word piss in my journal. It's a funny word, and a popular one. My old entry pissing on the inside gets more google hits than any other, just because of that word.

But I digress.

By an unfortunate coincidence, or a cruel twist of fate, their names are very similar. One right after the other in any alphabetized list that I've seen.

Such was the case in my phone. My heart's desire, followed immediately by my mind's logical choice. Bound together simply because of the spelling of their names.

Back before June, before I deleted LaptopGirl's name and number from my phone's memory because I no longer trusted my resolve, I'd always see their names together. I'd highlight name after name as I scrolled down the list. Each time I highlighted a name that person's number would pop up, covering the name of the person listed above them.

What I'm trying to say here, and I'm not having much luck, is that MixedSignalGirl's entry would cover LaptopGirl's entry. MSG was highlighted, but LG was still there, in the background. Out of sight but never completely out of mind.

And so it was with everything else in my life. MSG might have physically been right there in front of me, she might have hidden LG for a while, but it never lasted. As soon as my attention wandered from MSG, LG was right there again. Front and center, in every way but one.

And again I digress.

MixedSignalGirl and I - I don't know what's going to happen with us. We talked for a while, early this morning, but I don't think we've resolved anything. LaptopGirl may no longer lurk behind MixedSignalGirl in my mind and my heart, but this change will take some getting used to, for both of us.

The questions we've asked each other for all these months have not been answered. All that's happened is that the doorway to those answers has been opened. Whether we'll decide to step through or not, we just don't know. It's too soon. We don't want to act impulsively. Actually that's not right. I want to, but she's possessed of a pretty level head.

Meanwhile, I have a new question. One that only I can answer:

Now that I know what I'm really capable of feeling, will I ever be willing to settle for anything less?

Hmmm, I would have sworn that I started typing this before I went out earlier, but it's not here so I'll start over. Strange.

All day yesterday I tried to make up my mind what I'd do that night. The only thing that I knew for sure what that I didn't feel like going back to Rich O's.

I toyed with the idea of making a little circuit of the four brewpubs in Louisville. I thought about going to Jeffersonville and hanging out with my cousin. I even thought about just staying home and catching up on the television that's been tivoed over the last couple of weeks.

In the end, I went over to Fourth Street Live, which is part of Louisville's downtown revitalization vision. I kind of like it there. It makes me feel like a tourist. Like I'm on vacation or something.

So they were having this OktoberFest thingy, which in Louisville at Fourth Street Live, means that they ID you when you enter the block, and they have booths with BudMillerCoors beers in the middle of the street.

I wandered up and down the block a couple of times, looking to see if there was anyone I knew. I seemed to remember RealTrainGirl talking about OktoberFest recently. I don't think this is what she was talking about, but I figured that it would be a nice surprise to run into them.

I ended up at this place called The Pub. They have the best beer selection at Fourth Street Live. I ordered myself a Newcastle (1684).

While I was drinking my beer, I sent out a couple text messages, and I looked around the place to check out the local talent, as they say. There was one girl that sort of looked familiar, and she caught me looking at her and smiled. Yikes.

After about 15 minutes the girl started inviting me over to join her and her friends on their side of the bar. I declined politely because (a) Her friends were two guys and I figured that at least one of them was probably her boyfriend (maybe both of them from the dirty looks they were giving me), and (b) I'd texted MixedSignalGirl and was hoping that she'd show up, and (c) Normal girls do not invite me to join them in bars. I did not want to wake up in a tub of ice missing a kidney.

Seriously, what is it about women and their radar for when a man is vulnerable?

Anyway, after my Newcastle I had a new beer for me:

North Coast Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout (20)

(draft) A wonderful beer. Intensity everywhere from the aroma to
the flavor to the finish. Dark chocolate and quite a lot of roasted malt. A sweet burning finish that made me want another sip right away.

I had another of the Rasputins (40).

At one point I got a call from RealTrainGirl. There weren't at Fourth Street Live, but they'd be at Rich O's later. She and GreenBeerDude were going to "show me something." Yikes!

I hadn't heard from MixedSignalGirl since the early evening, so I figured that she wasn't coming. I shot off a message telling her where I'd be, and that I wanted to talk to her, then I drove back to Indiana and to Rich O's.

When I got there the usual assortment of idiots was in the living room area. I stood at the bar, ordered a half-pint of Guinness (871) and talked to Bubbles for a while until RealTrainGirl, GreenBeerDude, and MisunderstoodGirl arrived.

Here's what they had to show me:

Matching tatoos of what looked like a logo for a pizza place or something. I'm just guessing here, but there was probably alcohol involved in their decision to have them done.

So we just hung out for a while. RealTrainGirl and GreenBeerDude were quite animated, probably from the pain or something. MisunderstoodGirl was busily plotting revenge on the world or something, so she didn't say much.

It was a nice end to the weekend festivities, and it took my mind off MixedSignalGirl, who I still haven't heard from as I type this entry.

One of the things that I very rarely ever mention here is my life when I was married. There are several reasons for this, not the least of which is that I have zero desire to revisit those days and reopen those wounds.

I need to mention one event from those days now though, because it's relevant.

I had a stepson, and when he was I guess about 18 months or so old, I woke from an afternoon nap and went to get him up from his own nap. I opened the door to his bedroom.

The first thing I noticed was that he wasn't there.

The second thing I noticed was his window.

He'd managed to push out the screen and, I knew right away, had fallen out the window.

From his window to the ground outside was about eight feet. Coincidentally, that was the same as the distance I had to walk from his bedroom door to get to the window.

Walking to that window, expecting to see my baby's broken body laying on the ground outside - well I probably don't have to describe how terrifying that was. I probably couldn't describe it anyway, not with any kind of accuracy. Easily the scariest eight feet of my life.

So I stuck my head out the window, and I looked down.

There was nothing there. There was nobody there. There was no body there.

We lived in a mobile home, and the skirting wasn't completely installed yet, so I thought that he might have rolled, or crawled, or bounced, under the house. I went out the front door and around the house, trying to imagine what I'd tell my wife if the worst had indeed happened.

I got to the back of the house and looked under it.

Nothing. I remember checking the ground for blood. Nothing.

At about this point I guess I started to panic, because I don't remember much else.

I ran back into the house and grabbed the phone. I called the base police and told them my baby was missing and probably injured. I called my wife and told her all I knew - that he'd fallen out his window and I couldn't find him. I pounded on my neighbor's door and managed to convey to him that I needed him to get in his car and drive through the trailer park while I looked on foot.

I don't remember calling his name, as I ran through yard after yard. I'm sure that I did though. I'm sure that I was screaming his name. I flagged down the policeman that had responded to my call. He was going to drive around and search, just like my neighbor was doing, but he wanted to meet me at my house first.

I ran back to my house, and I sat on the steps, with my face buried in my hands.

When I looked back up, the baby was standing in front of me.

Just as I can't describe the terror I'd felt walking towards that window, what I felt when I saw him alive - there are just no words.

He didn't have a mark on him. Shit, he wasn't even particularly dirty.

I don't remember talking to the policeman when he got to my house. I don't remember calling off my neighbor's search. I don't even remember when my wife arrived. What I remember is clinging to that kid.

Sometimes life provides its own metaphors. I may be the only one that recognizes this one, but that's okay, because I'm the one that needed to recognize it.

I'm awake now, but while I slept she fell out the window. I need to find her and make sure she's okay.