...44 to go.

Today was a pretty good day, considering the circumstances.

I got this strong urge to shoot some pool. I don't know why, I just did.

I didn't even want to shoot against anyone. I just wanted to knock some balls into some holes. Sometimes, like tonight, that's all I want to do. Simple, but effective.

So I went to this Royal something-or-other place. It sucked. It was a nightclub with some pool tables. I wanted the exact opposite, except without the nightclub stuff.

I can't even remember the name of the place I went. The something.

That narrows it down.

All I wanted to do was knock some balls into some holes. But I was not about to back down from a challenge. Not this time.

It took about 10 seconds for one of the local "sharks" to detect me. It took about 60 seconds for us to negotiate a game, with a "friendly" wager and a "fair" spot.

It took about 5 minutes for me to realize that, in that particular little pond, I was the big fish.

The pussy quit me after a couple of hours and several hundred dollars. I don't really blame him except that he'd originally acted like he had money to burn.

The thing is, nobody up here knows how to play banks. Oh, certainly, people know how to bank, many of them much better than me, but to play the game of banks requires a special mindset. One that I possess, and others up here don't.

Like taking candy from a baby.

...45 to go.

Today was a bad day. Not that they're not all bad, but today was especially so.

Abandoned by one, or maybe two. Ignored by both, certainly. Real or imagined transgressions have made me the way I am tonight. Alone. Physically and mentally and chronologically and emotionally.

I'll get over it, most likely. I always do. I always forgive.

But what if I don't want to forgive?

Huh?

What if I want to stay angry? Can I force that particular emotion upon myself when other, less selfish emotions, constantly claw and climb their way towards the surface of my mind? Can anger be strong enough to defend its position? It's never been strong enough before; that's for sure.

This bullshit I use instead of a life would be a lot more bearable if I could stay angry. At the lies. At the teasings. At the broken promises, both implicit and explicit.

I keep waiting, expecting even, for something to push me over the edge. To make forgiveness impossible, even for me, of all people. It's going to happen. Eventually.

I can't fucking wait.

I've always wondered what I would write if I were to give up.

Soon, perhaps, I'll find out. Soon, perhaps, we'll all find out.

I think I'm finally starting to adjust to this time zone. The adjustment isn't complete, but I can tell it's happening.

I pretty much go to bed at a "normal" time. For me, that's somewhere between midnight and 1:00 AM. And to me, it feels like it's between midnight and 1:00 AM. This isn't what it felt like when I first got here. Back then it always felt like I wasn't going to bed until after 3:00 AM. That part of my brain was still stuck in the Eastern time zone.

I don't have any problem getting up at 7:00 either. I'm sure that's partly because the time to get up part of my brain is still in the good old EST - it thinks I get to sleep until 10:00 every day - but the fact that I go to bed at a normal time certainly helps. This helps me on weekdays, but it's a pain in the ass on weekends when I want to sleep in but my circadian rhythm wakes me up before 8:00 AM.

Another place where the adjustment is far from complete is between the hours of, say, 2:00 PM and 5:00 PM. The last three hours of work. My EST-accustomed brain is convinced that my work day is over, and it's a real chore to stay awake and alert.

And it doesn't help that it gets dark so soon at this latitude. When I left Indiana, sunset was probably around 7:00 PM. In Bellingham, it's dark by 4:30.

Anyway, I guess that's it.

...48 to go.

I want to write about eggs for a minute. Groan all you want, I don't care. I hardly ever write about eggs, so I'm way overdue. If you don't like it, feel free to go here instead. Have a nice time there.

There's a bar/restaurant/casino right next to my hotel. They have food, and they have a couple of good beers. It's handy-dandy. Unless you try, as I've done for the last two days, to order fried eggs.

These people don't know how to make a fried egg. They have some kind of mental defect that prevents them from understanding this simple concept:

Break open an egg. Dump it onto a hot surface. Break the yolk. Once it's cooked for a while, turn it over and cook it some more.

Simple, right?

This is called a fried egg in every place on Earth, except at this bar/restaurant/casino next to my hotel. In this place, they cannot figure it out. The closet they can do is over-easy.

I don't want over-easy. I don't want over-medium. I don't want over-hard. I don't want sunny-side-up. And I don't want scrambled or poached or hard-boiled. I just want a fucking fried egg, or two, or three. I want the goddamn yolk broken, and I want everything to be cooked solid.

Is that so hard to understand?

Apparently, it is.

On Saturday, I asked for three fried eggs, and I got three eggs over-easy. A federal case ensued.

On Sunday, I told the waitress that I didn't want another federal case. She assured me that it wouldn't happen again. So I ordered three fried eggs. I explained what I meant.

A short while later, the cook emerged from the kitchen. He explained that the waitress was confused, and he asked if I would explain to him what I wanted.

So I explained to him. He said he understood.

A few minutes later, I was presented with three fucking over-easy eggs.

So, I give up. I ended up eating three pieces of toast - they came with my eggs - that cost me $8.00.

I watch it happen, because that's all I can do. I cannot stop it, and I cannot slow it, and I cannot...

Uncoiling, unraveling, falling, piling in a haphazard tangle at my feet. The contents of me, the essence of me, they spill like...

I watch, because that's all I can do. And because it's what I must do.

Something has gone terribly wrong.

I die, but I live.

Why? To witness? To pay homage? To...

49 to go...

Almost.

That's the word I kept telling myself tonight. Over and over and over until I started to actually believe it.

Almost bearable.

See, I know who I am, and what I do. When I'm being myself, I sit at a bar, and I drink, and I think, and I smoke.

Last night, and tonight, I got to do all four things at the same time.

Washington, like most places these days, has an anti-smoking law in place. But Washington, perhaps unlike most places, also has Indian casinos in place. That's what they call them. Indian casinos. Not native-American casinos. Politically incorrect, maybe, but it's certainly their choice. They can call the things whatever they want.

Anyway, as near as I can figure it, these places and the reservations which contain them are not considered to be part of the United States. That's why the anti-smoking laws don't apply to them.

So tonight and last night I got to be more like myself than at any other time since I came to Bellingham.

It was almost bearable.

I'm 1954 - I looked it up - miles from home and from my life. I miss my friends and my family and my cats. I miss some people - they know who they are - more than I'd thought possible. More than is appropriate and more than I'm allowed. But even more than that, I've missed myself. Tonight and last night I found myself for a while.

All is certainly not perfect. I still search for that elusive writey mood. I dig around in my brain and my heart, my fingers grabbing and grasping at anything and everything. But when I pull my prizes into the light to examine them, they're never quite what I'm looking for.

I have so much to say. Too much to say, perhaps.

It sometimes seems that I'm needed the most when I'm unavailable. I was afraid this would happen. I even knew this would happen eventually, if I was gone long enough. Well, I've been gone long enough. And I'm needed. But I cannot help.

I'm too far away.

...50 to go.

I keep waiting, expecting, hoping to get into a proper mood. A writey mood, I call it. I doubt that's really a word, but I don't care. I'm going to use it anyway. It fits, and shit.

Besides, every word in existence was coined at some point.

But anyway, the writey mood eludes me. It's a slippery bastard.

---

It's all such bullshit. I've been told a thousand lies. A million lies. I want the truth. But nobody knows the truth. Not even the liars.

The truth, it's also a slippery bastard.

I get so sick of people tiptoeing around me. Treating me with kid gloves. Beating around the goddamn bush. Fucking protecting my feelings.

It's all such bullshit.

My feelings are nothing but scar-tissue. They're fucking indestructible.

---

Even now, even after everything, I don't matter even to myself. I will not, can not, put myself first. Second, maybe, but not first. Not before her. Or them. Whatever.

---

It was a horrible idea. I wanted it so much, but I wanted it for the wrong reason. So now, now I get to be alone over the holidays. I get to feel sorry for myself.

All will be as it should be.

---

This is my fault. I'm the one who messed up. I'm the one who can't or won't face reality.

Maybe they're really nothing. Nothing at all. Not leftovers of a reality almost gone. Not even echoes of a reality gone for months. And not even inklings of a future promised yet denied.

Maybe they're nothing.

Nothing at all.

Perhaps it's all in my head. Perhaps that's where it's always been. Perhaps that would make the most sense. Perhaps that would explain everything, to everyone but me.

---

He screams and he moans and he groans. Sometimes, he cries. His agony is as unimaginable as it is inevitable.

He will not die. He will not starve and he will not drown and he will not suffocate and he will not take his own life. He suffers and he endures.

Somehow, he survives.

I pity him, and I admire him. I worship him.

---

People like to spout platitudes to me. It makes them feel wiser and therefore superior to me. One such platitude is, "God will never give you more than you can handle."

My response to that is, "Tell that to my friend WomanRepellant."

---

They're not leftovers and they're not echoes and they're not inklings. What the fuck are they?

Seriously, I want to know. I need to know.

I fucking deserve to know.

The light streaming through my window this morning made a mezmerizing effect.