People, friends of mine, 'blog readers, whatever, keep telling me to stop bottling things up. They tell me to just let it out. That I'll feel better afterwards.

Well I've tried letting it out. Too many times. When, exactly, do I get to feel better? The most I've managed to do is empty myself completely. I then spend a few days waiting for something to fill that void and - surprise! - it's pain again! Sometimes I can conjure up something else, like anger or shock or disappointment. But none of those quite fit this hole in me. Nope, it's a pain-shaped hole, and pain seems to be all that can fill it.

People tell me that time heals all wounds.

How much time should it take? Does the passage of time even matter when the wound is constantly being reopened? When I continue to be drawn, day after day, week after week, back to the scene of the crime? Am I just supposed to feel a little bit better every day until I eventually wake up and I feel fine? Will I then say to myself "Wow, that was kind of fucked up," and then I'll get on with my life? Or will I just all of a sudden not hurt, like somebody flipped a switch? Wouldn't the shock be too much for me?

People tell me that I will get better. That things will work out.

How can anyone know for sure? How can anyone tell me, with any kind of certainty, that I won't be laying on my deathbed in forty years thinking "I wonder if she'll come to my funeral?" Every answer to every question I've asked has only unearthed more questions. There's no end in sight. This beast just continues to feed on itself.

People tell me what a good person I am. How lucky any girl would be to have me in their life.

I had lunch yesterday with a girl that's not feeling very lucky, I guarantee it. She's told me that she waited her whole life to meet me, but that she met me three months too late. She says that she's just as trapped as I am, but she started out as an innocent bystander. She says that she wants out but she can't find the right door. She says that her life is like a nightmare where all of the hallways twist around and keep leading back to the same place. Back to me. No, I don't think she feels particularly lucky to have me in her life.

People tell me that I'm blowing this all out of proportion. That it just doesn't make sense for this to have affected me this much.

I know it's absurd. It's stupid. It's beyond ridiculous. That doesn't make it any less real. Telling me that there's no good reason for these feelings only makes me feel worse. Trying to reason with me is the worst thing you can do. Because I already know all that shit.

People try to help. They really do. And I appreciate it. It's just not doing any good, and I kind of wish they'd stop.

Hey, I know! Let's play a game. I'll go back to my old ways. I'll bottle all this up, and you won't have to see it anymore. I'll pretend that everything is fine, and you can play along. It'll be just like old times! What the Hell, I'll even give MixedSignalGirl what she's been wanting. We'll probably get married and maybe even have a couple of kids before I get too old to appreciate them.

You'll all be so relieved that I'm finally okay again, and that I'm actually happy. "See?" you'll tell me. "Everything worked out in the end."

And I'll nod and tell you how you were right all along, that I just needed time to heal, and then one day I'll explode into a million pieces.

My sleep schedule was all messed up, so I didn't even get to Rich O's until after 10:00. Accordingly, I only had two beers; a Delirium Tremens (347) and then a Guinness (841).

The place was pretty empty, at least of people that I felt like talking to, so I just sat at the bar and pretended that I was happy.

Since this is such a short entry, I'll add some shit.

1. I didn't go to the Lanesville Heritage thingy again this year. My sleep schedule was just too messed up, so I ended up napping during the time I'd planned to go.

2. The new Applebee's in New Albany sucks donkey dicks. Maybe they all do. I wouldn't know - this is the first one I've ever been to. They did have bottles of Guinness (821) though, so I had two.

3. I drove the Monte Carlo around today. With Fall and Winter approaching, I won't have as many opportunities to drive it. So I'm taking advantage of what I've got.

4. Today, VigilanteGirl was wearing one of the Hard Rock shirts I bought her. She looks quite fetching in it. Dare I say yummy? Yes I do dare it. Yummy!

5. VigilanteGirl has tentatively agreed to go see that exorcism movie with me next weekend. I'll believe it when I see it.

6. I think that the hot girl from last weekend may have been an Internet stalker. That would be cool I think.

7. MixedSignalGirl used the "L" word with me today, then quickly retracted it and denied ever saying it. This is the type of thing from which nicknames are born.

8. RealTrainGirl is trying to expand the holes in her ears. I expect that in a year or so she'll have dinner plates instead of earrings.

9. My barenada.com readers seem to be pissed at me. Since I started duplicating everything at journalspace.com the number of daily messages I've received at my original site has dropped by about half.

10. I was going to make this an even 10, but I can't think of anything right now.

I don't think I mentioned ButterFace and Nerdlinger the other day. They were at Rich O's again last night. ButterFace reminds me of someone but I don't know who. With the body she's got, she could definitely do better than Nerdlinger.

Anyway, when I got to Rich O's, the place only had a half-dozen people in it. I mean in Rich O's proper - there were a bunch of people out front and in the loser area.

The problem was, the half-dozen people were so scattered about the place. Nowhere were there three seats where my friends and I could sit without invading somebody's territory.

So that's what we did. We grabbed some seats at the island next to some people that I don't know.

It was quite cool to see MisunderstoodGirl again. She was her usual bubbly and outgoing self. Not. Still cool though.

Let's see, I started off with a Spezial Rauchbier (680), and I pretty much had that finished by the time the girls arrived. Next I had a Baltika "6" (158) so I could continue my ongoing love affair with that lovely beer.

Oh yeah, I did buy the girls their first beers as payment for being so good at pretending.

RealTrainGirl keeps bugging me to go to this Oktoberfest thingy. When I hear the word Oktoberfest I figure it's all about lagers, and since I don't like lagers I don't want to go.

Lanesville, my first hometown, is having this heritage festival this weekend. Every year I tell myself that I should go and check it out, and every year I end up not going. I imagine that this year will be no different, but as of this writing I'm still planning to head down there later today. We'll see.

Once my Baltika was gone I had a half-glass of Spezial (690).

It was one of those nice and pleasant evening that I've come to loathe, but it was much better than the last few boring nights at Rich O's have been. I enjoyed myself.

On the way home I was feeling nostalgic so I went into this bar near my home that had been my Dad's old hangout. I was going to have a Falls City in his honor but they no longer carry it. That fact, more than anything else, told me that times have indeed changed. I was, however, pleasantly surprised to see Newcastle so I had a bottle of that (1632).

Then when I got home I was going to read some 'blogs but InsightBB decided to crap out again so I just went to bed.

Got off work a couple of hours ago. At least I got off my day job.

The real work begins in about an hour.

I just got out of the shower. My clothes for the night are dewrinkling in the dryer. My hair is still damp but I don't have much so it'll dry soon enough.

Before too long, it'll be time to really go to work.

Don't try to tell me that pretending to be a person all night isn't work, 'cause it is. Hard work.

Now I know why all those actors and actresses in the movies get paid so much. They get paid for pretending to be somebody they're not, and they do it well.

Now me, I don't usually do such a good job. I don't fool many people, I don't think. My performances are just too wooden - too obviously choreographed.

Because of my lackluster performances, I don't get paid all that much. Every now and then somebody will buy me a beer or something, but that's about it.

RealTrainGirl called me this evening to see if I wanted to meet her and MisunderstoodGirl at Rich O's. Duh. Of course I do. Those two are good at pretending that I'm giving a realistic portrayal of a person. Actually, they're better at pretending than I am. Maybe I should buy them beers.

You know how every time you run water you start thinking that the phone's ringing?

:cricket chirping:

Okay, fellow crazy people only: You know how every time you run water you start thinking that the phone's ringing?

:pin dropping, coyote howling:

Well maybe it's just me. Every time I get in the shower I start imagining that the phone's ringing. So I turn off the faucet and it's nothing. Then when I stand at the sink shaving I start imagining that the phone's ringing. So I, once again, turn off the faucet and it's, once again, nothing.

Except for tonight. Tonight when I was shaving, and I imagined that the phone was ringing, it really was ringing. It was my friend Eric.

So I guess I'm only crazy 99% of the time.

The moral of this story is that I'm bored, and I don't really want to go to work tonight.

I don't really know if I'm going anywhere with this entry. I'll probably decide that it's too stupid to post. If you're reading this, then I suppose that I decided otherwise.

The other day I was clicking around JournalSpace. I don't remember if I'd hit "Random Journal" from the front page or just followed a favorites link from another 'blog. Doesn't matter.

At one point I landed on a journal I hadn't seen before. This journal, like so many, had a profile photo displayed at the top. This wasn't much of a photo, as photos go. You couldn't even see her face. Just the top of her head behind knees and folded arms.

But still, the resemblance was uncanny. My heart actually skipped a beat or three. Was this actually her? I quickly clicked over to her profile.

Hmmm, nothing identifiable there, so back to the journal.

I read entry after entry, moving backwards through time, and with each entry that I read I became more and more convinced. Convinced that I'd chanced upon her journal.

I also became convinced that I'd been right all along. She was brilliant, and passionate. She did have actual feelings, and she was able to express them with an eloquence that surpassed even my inflated expectations.

This girl, who'd always seemed so guarded when it came to her own life and her own feelings - this girl had found a place to express herself, and I had stumbled upon it.

I wouldn't have thought it possible, but while reading those entries, my feelings for her grew stronger than they'd ever been.

Of course all good things must come to an end, and this was no exception.

About a dozen entries into this girl's mind I read something that shattered the illusion I'd thrown together so quickly. A reference to an area of the country. The wrong area of the country.

It wasn't her.

I must have reread that sentence a dozen times, hoping that, like in a dream, the words would change with each reading. That they would change to something that would allow my illusion to continue.

The words never changed. It really wasn't her, and it never had been.

I've got that journal open right now as I write this entry. Maybe it'll inspire me or something. That photograph is burned into my brain. I was just so sure!

I'm having a tough time, right now, coming up with the proper words to express the disappointment I felt. In fact, I've given up, and I'll just list two choices. You see if you can choose the correct one:

I was disappointed because, as it turned out:

• The girl who writes the journal is not the girl I know.


• The girl who I know is not the girl who writes the journal.

The voicemail message was not encouraging. There was no real news, but this was one of those situations where no news wasn't necessarily a good thing.

Something bad was happening. Something terrible was potentially happening - may have already happened during the time between when the message was left and when I finally noticed my blinking phone.

Before I returned the call, I took a few minutes to start preparing for the worst. Planning my reaction. Rehearsing my lines. The show must go on and all that crap.

It was, as it turned out, a false alarm. As false as it could have been I suppose. I felt myself exhale, finally, mercifully.

I would not have to feign humanity tonight.

So Rich O's is selling this Abita Purple Haze for $10.00 a glass, and sending the money to Katrina victims.

Yes, I though it was a nice gesture as well, until I drank the beer.

Abita Purple Haze (5)

(draft) A cloudy beer with a slightly pinkish tint. If it had any actual flavor I'd decribe it here, but alas, there was none. A waste of time.

I could have finished the glass, but why on Earth would I want to? So I had a Spezial Rauchbier (640) to remind myself what a good beer tastes like.

When somebody comes into my house to clean it and leaves the thermostat set at minus 61 degrees when they leave.

Well, my muse has been nagging me once again to write something. I've tried to explain that feeling nothing is often quickly followed by thinking nothing, and that thinking nothing is inevitably followed by writing nothing. But she'll have none of that nonsense apparently, so I'm going to write.

I'm going to write about this dream I had last night.

I tell you this now so, if you're like me and hate reading about other peoples' dreams, you can leave now before it's too late.

Still here? Well don't say I didn't warn you.

I was at a party at ElPresidente's house. Just about everyone I knew from Rich O's was there, including a certain girl that I may have mentioned from time to time in this 'blog.

I was sitting on a couch, talking with this certain girl about something or another - I don't remember what exactly. What I do remember is that, in a single sentence, she said the word "kiss" four times. There was just something about the way she said the word. The way she drew it out and added syllables.

She wanted me to kiss her.

My dream self is quite a bit more brave than my awake self. I leaned over to her and gave her the softest kiss I could manage.

I was instantly hard, and so I instantly regretted the kiss. I'd tried to do something sweet, to be a good guy, and my body was trying to turn it into something completely different. I pulled away and started to stammer out an apology.

But she, she would have none of that nonsense apparently, because she followed me as I pulled away, and she followed me as I leaned back as far as I could. She kissed me several times, then we kissed each other several times. Tentatively at first, like we were both just feeling things out, but after a bit our lips parted in unison.

I got to first base with her, and I was nearly weeping from the relief and the happiness - the joy of it. She was crying openly, and telling me that I had no idea how long she'd been hoping that this would happen.

So at that point, we both knew that things were going to progress beyond the point where the middle of ElPresidente's living room would be the appropriate setting. Luckily for us, the FirstCouple had planned ahead, and were taking reservations for the numerous bedrooms in the house.

Unluckily for us, we were told that we had at least a two-hour wait. Must have been a randy bunch at the party.

We spent the next two hours waiting, cuddling on the couch, sneaking kisses when we thought nobody would be looking. It was both the happiest, and the most frustrating, period of my life. I got some under the blouse second-base action, but I wanted to SEE.

Eventually, FINALLY, one of the bedrooms opened up. RealTrainGirl and MusicalHippeeDude came down the stairs looking disheveled and holding hands (WTF?!?) and ElPresidente told us that it was our turn.

We stood up...

...and I woke up.

Now this damn dream kept me awake for the rest of the night. I could (and still can) remember every touch, every smell, every taste, every emotion. I've had very few dreams in my life that were this vivid and that had so much feeling in them.

I think what got to me though was not so much the specific content of the dream as the fact that I'd never had that type of dream about her before. Only a handful of times has my dream self ever even encountered her, and those times had never included anything romantic or sexual at all. Unless you count the time that I was seven and she was five or six.

Now, if I believed in this shit at all, I'd figure that maybe the girl in my dream was nothing more than a metaphor. A metaphor for the girl that even now continues to scale the walls of my fortress.

The girl that told me I had to write something.

My lovely muse, who is always forced to take a back seat. Even in my dreams.

But I don't believe in this shit, so I'm interpreting the dream as a true representation of what my heart wants.

I wish things were different. I really do. For her sake and mine.