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!

After the first month or so of that, I'd probably have lost some readers.

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.

You can thank me later.

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.

At one point KidneyGirl and her two guy friends were joined by two other girls - the actual girlfriends of the guys from the looks of things. This left KidneyGirl alone, and it left me with only two reasons to not join them. It was probably too late by then anyway.

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.

So. I guess my experiment worked.

I spent so much time trying to understand what was happening to me, I lost sight of the real problem. The real problem wasn't that I couldn't understand it, or how absurd it was, or even how much I missed her. The real problem was that it was killing me. Slowly but ever so surely, I was dying from the pain and the torment and the confusion. Once I finally stopped trying to figure it out, once I stopped feeling sorry for myself, I was able to do what needed to be done. I fought it. I fought myself to get my own life back, and I won.

What am I supposed to do now? Why, nothing I guess. Just muddle through. See what happens.

This will take some getting used to, but I've got time now. I've got my whole life ahead of me.

Well I don't think this one needs much in the way of interpretation at all.

The bus is old, like a Greyhound from the 1950s or something. I enter the door and climb up the steps. The bus is about half full. It's all of the people from the bar. I wonder where we're going, and I sit nine rows back, on the driver's side, next to the window.

The first thing I noticed when I went to Rich O's last night was that the new annex area was having some kind of party. Looked like a kid's birthday party or something. Very strange to see that many strangers at Rich O's.

The living room area was a study in contrast. On the loveseat sat MusicalHippeeDude, Nerdlinger, and ButterFace. The sofa and the chair held a bunch of strangers/assholes/idiots.

I sat at the island with WomanRepellant and OldBob's wife. I had a Spezial (800) to start the night.

The doors creak closed, and the bus shudders to a start. Everyone seems pretty excited that we're finally on our way. Conversations start up all around me, but I can't make out what they're saying.

I talked with WomanRepellant for a bit, but I was really just being polite. I was more interested in when the fuck the shitheads would leave the sofa so I could go talk to ButterFace.

CoffeeDude came in at about the same time that WomanRepellant left. He joined me at the island and we bullshitted for a while about nothing in particular.

The shitheads ordered another round of beers.

I still don't know where we're going, but wherever it is, we're taking all these backroads instead of the expressway. The bus leans crazily with every turn we take.

Next I ordered a Weihenstephaner (157). I guess they're on the last keg of this, so I wanted to have it one more time before it runs out.

One of the bartenders was in a shitty mood. That's pretty normal, but it's usually not this guy that's like that. I wondered what was bothering him while I waited 15 minutes for my beer to arrive. I guess it was probably all the strangers running around out front. I'd be in a bad mood too I suppose.

I look around the bus, and I don't see any of my friends. It's just a bunch of people that I recognize from the bar, but there's nobody I feel like talking to.

Nerdlinger and ButterFace pay their tab and leave. They both gave me little smiles and waved on their way out. They're good people I think. It's pretty rare to find a couple that comes into Rich O's and keeps coming back. I felt a little bad for them that they had to listen to the shitheads all night.

Oh, great. Now the shitheads finally decided to leave. MusicalHippeeDude was left alone in the living room area. Meanwhile, CoffeeDude and I had been joined by several PBDs, so I was feeling a little claustrophobic. I grabbed my shit and moved over to the sofa.

The bus pulls into the Rich O's parking lot. Some people get up and leave, but I can't leave because there are new people getting on that are in my way. The doors close and I settle back into my seat.

CoffeeDude and SpikeBoy moved over to the living room area and joined us. I was going to try this Rogue Saison, but I figured that it was probably too strong to drink after what I'd already had, so I decided on a Baltika 6 (236) instead.

So the four of us sat and drank our beers and rattled on about nonsense. We could have been any four guys sitting in any bar in the world. I wondered, for about the zillionth time, just what the Hell I was doing there. I left the sofa and went to stand at the bar while I finished my beer. Then I paid my tab and left.

I make my way to the front of the bus and ask the driver to take me home. He takes me to a ranch house in a subdivision. I try to tell him that I don't live there anymore, but he's not listening to me. He keeps looking at his watch, and tells me to either get off or stay on. He's got a schedule to keep.

I get off the bus, and I start walking home.