"Just write," she says.

"I don't know how," I say. "Not anymore."

"It's just like riding a bike," she says. "Just get on. It will all come back to you."

---

So tomorrow morning, I leave. In about 8.5 hours, to be precise, I leave. Again.

This time, I'm going to Las Vegas, for 6 days. It's supposed to be for a vacation. At least that's what I keep telling myself. Anything more than that will just be a bonus.

I'll go and I'll have fun and I'll celebrate my birthday and I'll spend some time with someone who actually appreciates me. As a person, and as a man.

I should be excited. I should have been chomping at the bit for a month, in anticipation of this trip. But, I'm not. And, I haven't been, and it's kinda too late to start now.

It's not that I'm dreading this trip. Nothing like that at all. It's just that I'm not nearly as excited as I should be. As I could be. As I want to be.

I'll go. And I'll have a good time. I know that I'll have a good time. And whatever happens will happen, and then, most likely, I'll come back home.

And there's the rub, I think.

No matter where I go, or how long I'm gone, the odds are very good that I'll still have to come back.

And there's no longer any reason to come back.

---

And the funny thing is, back when I was 30, I realized that I'd forgotten how to ride a bike.

You don't turn the bar to steer, you just lean. It took me a while to remember that.

If I would just write. I mean really write. I know I could accomplish something with it. Even if the something was nothing more than the long overdue clearing of my head and my heart. These thoughts grown stale. These feelings wilted from lack of nourishment.

I can still do it, you know. I can still let my fingers tap-tap-tap away on my keyboard and watch words appear on my screen. I'm doing it right now, actually. But these words aren't me. These words are just shadows of who and what I am. My tap-tap-tapping fingers force the words into the light, and they disappear.

Where do shadows go when the light shines?

And what's left behind, when the shadows are gone?

I can't help but wonder. Just like you, my dear readers, can't help but wonder.

So what if we wonder about different things? We're still in this boat together, in a way. There is a difference, though. You can always jump ship, but I cannot. I'm the fucking captain, for better or for worse. I'll go down with this ship, or I'll keep it afloat and bring it into port. Time will tell, I guess.

I mean, you wonder about how long I can keep writing about the same old thing, the same old crap.

I, meanwhile, wonder about other things.

Like, tonight, exactly who am I even writing about?

The lying bitch who used me and then tossed me aside? Or maybe the sweet girl who felt genuine affection for me, only to have it evaporate before it could solidify? Was I a victim of indescribable cruelty, or were we victims of timing?

I wish that I knew. I really do. It would/should/could make all the difference in the world. To walk, or to run, or perhaps to stand my ground, at least a little longer...

I don't even write here anymore. Not because I don't need to write, or even because I don't want to write. I don't write because, what would I say? What good would it do? What would be the point?

I constantly look for the words to say to make everything right. I've been looking for so long. I'm convinced that the words exist. Such is my delusion, perhaps, but also such is my salvation.

I'm still met with disbelief, after all this time - and I meet it with my own disbelief.

Excuses after excuses, but never a reason.

Unnecessary.

Did I need a reason?

Nope.

So why should I expect one in return?

Answer: I shouldn't.

But, I do.

Something that I can believe. Something that's not clearly made-up bullshit. Something that's more than just an excuse.

Dammit.

So there.

It felt like I'd forgotten to wear pants.

It was Wednesday, I think. I was sitting in the throne at Rich O's. Or somebody was sitting there. I'm not convinced that it was me, despite numerous testimonies.

It was like one of those dreams. You're at school and everything is cool and then you notice that you're not wearing any pants.

I'd definitely forgotten something. Where was it? What was it?

Then, Thursday night, it felt like I had an itch. One I couldn't scratch. Not one of those annoying itches in the middle of your back that you can't reach, but deeper. Under the skin. In my heart or my brain or my soul - I couldn't pin it down. It was an irritating itch, but it wasn't unbearable.

Dammit, it should have been unbearable.

I'm not really sure what's happening.

HatGirl thinks I'm being stoic. But it's not that. It's something else. I'm something else.

Tonight was another weird night. I knew exactly what I was supposed to be feeling, but I couldn't quite get there. I was a needle on a record player, running parallel to the music but never quite in the right groove.

I hope I haven't become a pod person. I hate pod people.

Everybody up here looks like somebody. It's the weirdest thing.

It's not like when I go to most cities, and everyone looks familiar, like I might have seen them before. It's also not like the last time I was in Las Vegas, when every girl I saw reminded me of either LaptopGirl or Hatgirl. Nope, up here in Bellingham, everybody looks like a specific person that I know.

All hyperbole aside, it's a phenomenon that's happening often enough that it freaks me out a little.

Up here, I've had a beer with a girl who looked so much like SassyGirl that I almost gave her a hug when she sat next to me. I've gotten my hairs cut by a girl I dated in high school. I've seen MusicalYuppieDude lose badly at poker. I've seen CrazyGirl get shitfaced enough to make moves on TallLady. I've seen my sister Dina having dinner at Olive Garden. I go to a gas station in the mornings and buy a Diet Pepsi from the fucking dipshit, of all people.

And, of course, I've seen HatGirl and LaptopGirl about twenty times each.

I could go on and on. There have probably been fifty instances of these things.

Sometimes, it's felt like I wasn't gone at all.