She's been acting weird lately.

In a good way or in a bad way - I can't say for sure. Mainly because I don't know.

A weird way.

Like suddenly I matter more than I mattered before.

It's about time, I think.

---

I've been having a really tough time lately, with memory.

I find myself thinking that this situation sucks, and I kinda dwell on that fact for hours and hours and hours and hours.

I drink lots of beer.

Then, I remember that this situation was my choice.

Then, I remember why I made that choice.

Then, I decide to stick with that choice.

Only then, for a few precious minutes, and I anything close to okay with this.

The rest of the time I'm barely held together with band-aids and those twisty-wire thingies that come with loaves of sliced bread.

---

I seem to have forgotten what paragraphs are for, or how to use them.

---

Something else is happening. To a friend of mine. Something that I just know is going to end badly. But I cannot warn my friend, because nobody ever fucking listens to me.

Even though I'm right all the time.

All I can do is hope that, when the inevitable pain comes, that she can deal with it, and that she knows that she doesn't have to go through it alone.

---

I've been having these horrible, terrible thoughts. Like daydreams, except that they're more like nightmares.

Is there such a thing as a daynightmare?

Anyway, these little scenarios are fucking horrible, like the worst things that could possibly ever happen, yet in each of them I end up being needed.

So they're like 99.999999% terrible, and .000001% good.

I like to be needed.

I need to be needed.

But not at the prices I keep imagining.

---

Sometimes, I feel guilty.

Like, right now for example.

But what can I do?

Nothing, that's what.

The requisite eyes are not mine. I'm too close.

---

That last bit was a little murky, wasn't it?

Good. That's what I was going for.

I was just thinking back to that night in mid-May, 2007.

It's hard to believe that any human being could be as happy as I was.

My face hurt so much because I couldn't stop smiling. For days and days I couldn't stop smiling.

I could have died on that night, and I would have died an incredibly wonderfully happy man.

But nooooooooooo.

I had to keep living.

It's pretty ironic that, as it turns out, that was the worst night of my life.

Heh, this guy on facebook just asked me if I ever sleep.

Sleep brings dreams, so no thanks, I'll pass.

I'd like one of each, please.

I wonder, if I were to write an entry about cynicism, would people doubt my motives?

I'm pretty sure that I would. In fact, I'm pretty sure that I'm doing it right now, as I type this sentence.

It's just something I was thinking about today. I don't want to become one of those people. One of those people who's distrust has become so universal that they can't even trust themselves anymore. I know several people like that. They're not happy people.

I don't want to be like that. Like one of them.

But, problem is, I'm bombarded with selfishness and deceit everywhere I look and everywhere I go.

Lies disguised as kindness.

Cruelty for my own good.

And so on...

It's hard to trust. It really is. To look through the deceptions and beyond the actions and see what a person is really like. To ignore the bumps in the road and remember that it's the destination that's important.

I'm rambling now. I think I'll go sit in my garage. It's a nice night.

I went to the store just now. I got to the end of my driveway, and then realized that I didn't have my phone with me.

But that's not the really weird part.

The really weird part is that I didn't slam on my brakes and run into my house to get my phone. Nope, I just went to the store and came back.

Like a normal person.

I could write a bunch of stuff right now. A huge part of me wants, perhaps even needs, to vent a little.

But, I made a promise.

I keep my fucking promises.

Wow, it's late. Time flies, as they say.

I guess it's fortunate timing that I don't really feel like writing, because I'm not sure that there are sufficient words to describe my current mood.

So much potential, pissed away.

A few weeks ago I was numb. That was because it was simply too much to bear, I think.

I'd kinda like to be numb again.

Tomorrow I might get to see HatGirl. I'm holding her car hostage in my garage until I get to see her. It's been a bajillion years.

I'm not looking forward to telling her about Thursday and Friday. She'll be disappointed in me, I know. She warned me that, if I let my guard down, I'd get hurt all over again.

She was right.

I wonder, if she'd given me any inkling that it would be as bad as it turned out to be, if I would have heeded her warning.

Probably not.

There's this old saying that everyone has heard.

I'll paraphrase. "If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't fucking say anything at all."

Well, I don't have anything nice to say.

Don't push it. I'm angry. You won't like me when I'm angry. I know that I don't.

I remember Mommy coming into the room.

I don't remember where I was. It was probably at my grandmother's house, but that detail is lost to me forever. I remember Mommy coming into the room, and I remember being oh so happy to see her. I probably peed a little, but I was allowed to, back then.

And then I saw it.

I'd reached my arms up as high as they would reach, and I'd jumped with my little legs to reach even higher, and I'd yelled one of the only words I knew at the time.

"Mommy! Mommy!"

So Mommy would see me, so she would hear me, so she would pick me up like she always had before. So my world would be complete again.

But she didn't pick me up. Her arms were full.

She was carrying it.

That is my earliest memory.

It turned out to be my sister Dina, and I was 21 months old.

---

I remember playing with a girl. She had long dark hair. We sat on the floor between the kitchen and the living room, and we played.

I remember the house, and I remember the girl. It was probably my cousin Terri, but I can never know for sure.

That memory is so strong in my mind. I couldn't have been more than 3 years old.

---

Dad came and woke me up, and carried me to Dina's room. Then he put me down and picked Dina up. The three of us - how odd that I don't remember Mom being there - went into the living room.

On the TV, I watched grainy footage of white-suited men bouncing around on a white plain.

I wondered why Dad had tears in his eyes.

I was 4 and a half years old.

---

I'd walk to kindergarten, and my long shadow would lead me down the road. Then, when I'd walk back home, the shadow would be short and stocky, and it would chase me all the way home.

I asked Mom why my shadow was so different when I came home, and she said she didn't know.

---

I was showing my friend Kelly how fast I could run with my new shoes. I ran through a glass door.

Dad carried me, both of us covered in blood, and took me to the doctor. I got 81 stitches, and I still have scars. I remember being afraid that the doctor was going to cut off my nose. It had been hurt badly.

I was 5 years old.

---

I'm not sure what the point of this entry was.

Maybe it's just to change the damn subject.

Okay, I'm in a writey mood tonight. Wonders never cease, huh?

Problem is, I'm also a little bit drunk tonight. A couple glasses of Fat Tire (2246) and a bottle of The Reverend (782) will do that to a person, especially if that person is me.

Sometimes I really hate being such a lightweight.

Anyway...

Looking for inspiration, I did a search of my old blog entries. Bonus points will ensue for anyone who can deduce the two-word phrase for which I searched. Not that it matters. It's all the same. It's always been the same, for six and a half years. And, I fear, it will continue to be the same, for as long as it takes. Either long enough for me to stop breathing, or long enough for me to stop waiting.

Here's one from July 2009. I could have written it yesterday, and it would have fit perfectly:

It's not stupidity that keeps me here. Nope, it's knowing the truth, even when everyone else fails to see it. It's speaking the truth, and living the truth, and waiting for beautiful eyes to open so that I'm not alone any more.

It's not cowardice that keeps me from turning away and facing the unknown. It's that the unknown holds no appeal for me. And why should it? The appeal of the unknown lies in its potential, and I've already found all of the potential I could ever want.

It's not weakness. I'm not here because I'm weak, but because I'm strong. I have persevered when others would have given up. I have pushed forward when others would have faltered. Time after time I have exposed my heart to the daggers of reality and, though I've been stabbed, I've never given up and I've never cowered and I've never ran away. I've been right here all this time.

And it's not insanity. Step inside me and look through my eyes. See what I see. Feel with my heart the things that I feel. Use my lips to speak, and use my ears to listen to the words fighting to be heard. Reach out with my hand and touch what I touch, and feel the tingling of a million touches yet to come. This is all very real.

It's not stupidity, or cowardice, or weakness, or insanity. It's something else.

I know what it is. So far, I'm the only one who really knows what it is. What it's like. What it means. What it portends.

So far, I'm the only one who really gets it.

But eventually, there'll be another.

Beautiful eyes will open, and they will see me, right where I've been all along.

I can forgive a lot of things. I have forgiven a lot of things. More than anyone else would have forgiven.

But this?

How the fuck am I supposed to forgive this and still manage to maintain some semblance of dignity?

I am not a doormat, though I've played one in the past, when it seemed that a doormat was needed.

I did what was necessary, or at least what seemed necessary at the time, not because of what those things were, but because of who needed them.

Because of who needed me.

And I liked it. Loved it, even. I lived for those opportunities.

And now?

Summary dismissal.

Of whatever the fuck you want to call it. Friendship? Something more? Something less? Something else?

I don't care what you call it. Just pick something. And don't say nothing. Don't you fucking dare say nothing.

We may no longer exist, but I still do exist. Barely.

And what's left of me deserves more than this. Even the worst person on Earth would deserve more than this.

More than nothing.

What's the point of another 45 years?

This question is both serious and rhetorical.

I don't know the answer. I used to know it, but I was wrong.

I was so fucking wrong. I bet my life, and I lost the bet. I risked it all, and I lost it all.

So what's the point of another 45 years? What's the point, dare I ask, of another 45 seconds?