And you just exist, and you try your best to do more than simply exist, and then you see that it's been eight years since your life changed. Ended. Began. Something. And you see that all you've done is exist. Barely.

And you try to convince yourself that it wasn't all wasted. And you fail. And you want to break down. Because it's just too long. Because it's just too much.

Faith is a funny thing. And by funny I mean incredibly cruel.

This won't work. I'm going to just go ahead and say that it won't work. But I'm going to try. I'm going to try to write something. Even though I've really got to pee right now.

I used to have this thing. This delusion, I guess. Or maybe a psychosis. I thought it was just hope, but seeing as I was subject to delusions and psychosises, my opinion never held much weight. Not even with me.

That was circular reasoning, back there.

Also, I made that word up.

Regarding one particular, um, relationship, I used to think that things would be fine. That it was just a rough patch. That, as long as I stayed true, eventually I'd be treated nicely. It's been a long time since I've felt that way about that particular, um, relationship. After enough mistreatment, I began to expect the worst from every encounter. I lost that hope or delusion or psychosis or whatever. I expected to be shit upon.

Finally, I got to be right. Yay for me, I guess.

Now, there's another, um, relationship that's falling apart. And I find myself doing the same thing. I keep thinking that it will be okay. That this is just a rough patch. That we're way too close to let a little thing like this come between us. That, as long as I stay true, I'll be treated nicely.

So far, not so much.

I think it's a very sad thing, that what used to be so beautiful has been reduced to me waiting for hope to end.

Yes, indeed, it's a very sad thing.

Steeling myself. It won't be long now.

Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. Anything after Tuesday would be a miracle, I think.

There's nothing I can do, except wait for the inevitable, and prepare to mourn.

I’m getting so sick of my phone, specifically of the typos it throws into every email or text message I type. It’s “door massage” and ”Smands” taken to epic proportions. Luckily, I pretty much only send messages to RockGirl and StupidGirl these days, and they’re probably used to my typos.
 
Or maybe they think I’m retarded. I certainly hope not. At least I don’t have to write typo-free with my entire professional reputation on the line with everything I type. One time, I tried to help with something along those lines. My help was ignored, so screw it. I’m not doing it anymore. If certain people want to look like idiots, that’s their business.
 
This damn phone, though. I usually type with the touchscreen. The slide-out keyboard is much too small. So I use the touchscreen. Problem with that is, it’s not an iPhone, so the touchscreen is kinda crappy.
 
I’m bored at work, in case you didn’t already guess as much.

So, this lady died. Anyone reading this site is likely to either know exactly who I'm talking about, or to have no idea who I'm talking about. Not really relevant whether you knew her or not. Only relevant that she was a true fixture at Rich O's, and she up and died on us.

Almost immediately after her death, the petition for beatification started making its rounds. It's still making its rounds. That's what happens when people die. They're suddenly the greatest person who ever lived, and everyone I mean everyone is devastated that they're gone. Because they were so great, and stuff.

So the poor huddled masses left behind, they want to do something to honor and sing the praises of the person that lived, so that maybe that person wouldn't seem quite as dead. I mean, memories certainly outlive people, may as well let them be good memories, right?

Right? Even at the cost of honesty?

Part of it might be because of guilty conscience, part of it might be because of the glaring reminder of our own mortality, and a lot of it is simply going with the mourning flow. Mostly, I like to think, it's because people are genuinely decent at their cores. Most people, anyway.

This lady who died, she was very nice. She was very friendly. She was also quite pushy at times, and a gossip most of the time. There, I said it. I think she managed to piss me off more over the last couple of years than not, prying as she was so wont to do. I think she managed to make as many people feel uncomfortable as she made feel welcomed.

For the last couple of years, my own interactions with her were reduced to simple hellos and goodbyes. Any deeper discussion was off limits between us, and eventually she figured that out and stopped pressing.

Nobody's perfect. Not even after they die. This might be cold, but it's also true. And the lady who died, she was smart enough and certainly honest enough to know it. She would hold no ill will towards me for the words I write tonight. She'd appreciate them, for they're clearly neither empty praise nor pointless parroting.

That place, Rich O's, has certainly changed a lot over the years that I've been going there. Then, a couple of Thursdays ago, it changed a lot more. Like I told her son at the informal wake the night of the funeral, Rich O's will never be the same again.

The world is a worse place now than it was a couple of weeks ago. I can't always say that, but I can say it now.

Sometimes, I feel like I could stay out there forever. Not a care in the world. The only sounds, the ubiquitous crickets, and her cat purring at my feet. The only sights, the stars far above, or the occasional car passing by. The cool yet elusive breeze that feels oh so good on my skin that even my minimal clothing seems excessive.

Memories eventually intrude, though. The feelings find me. The regrets torment me. And so I come back inside, and I go to bed. Sometimes, I even manage to sleep.

So Friday, after work, I went to Rich O's. First time in a couple of weeks, I think. I don't really know why I went. It's not like there's anything there for me anymore. My friends have all finished what I started - abandoned the place for the most part. I think we still go there, every now and then, full of some misguided hope that things will be back to normal for a while.

Yeah, that's never happened. Sometimes the past is really the past. Sometimes change is not only for the worse, it's permanent.

I go in there these days and I'm usually the only customer there is in the Rich O's proper area. Oh well, I guess. This is what they wanted, for some stupid reason.

Anyway.

What I wanted to write about was that, when I went there Friday, I started shaking. Like from a bizarre mixture of excitement and fear. I mean, I fell in love in that place. I found hope in that place. I found patience in that place. Then, later, I found other things. Disappointment. Despair. Heartache.

I finally stopped shaking about an hour after I got back home.

It's really amazing to me, how emotions can hide in places, behind memories. You walk into a place and, for a while, you think you're safe. But you're not. The emotions are waiting. They ambush you. They jump into you, and they take over. They run the show that is you.

My friend OddlyFamiliarGirl remembers every word of every conversation she's ever had. She's all smart and shit, that girl. My own memory isn't quite as strong, nor is it made of the same stuff. Nope, I remember emotions. Not to the point where I can easily relive them, just enough to remember that they're there. Waiting, lurking.

Then, as soon as I realize they're there, they strike, and I shake.

OddlyFamiliarGirl's way would be better, I think. It would certainly be easier to deal with. Plus, it would make for a good party trick.

Behind places, and faces, beneath sights and sounds, the memories wait for me to show up. They even welcome me, sometimes. But hiding behind the memories are the emotions, and they always surprise me with their ruthless intensity, and they tear away at me, and I could do certainly without them.

What good have they ever done me?

Testes testes 123...

This doesn't count. I'm nowhere near as loosened up as I'd hoped to be.

I'm going to be so pissed at myself in 40 years, when I go back to read this shit. Such an important and formative time in my life, and I'm staying so silent. It's like I expect to remember all this shit. Fuck, I'll be lucky to remember my own damn name in 40 years, or how to not piss my pants.

But what can I say? What can I say that hasn't already been said a million times, or been censored a million times?

I'm stuck here, you know. Trying to invent a middle ground where none exists. Loving what I hate, and hating what I love. Everything I ever wanted, blended with everything I ever avoided. My life is a grotesque mixture of dread and hope, of fear and desire, of love and hate. I'm trying to muddle through, but really just surviving, and only barely at that.

This would all be so very interesting, if only I could step aside for a while. If only I could be objective for a while. I feel things, and they're not true. They're not even close to being true, but I not only don't care, I refuse to see. Feelings trump facts, every single time. Faced with the absolute worst, I continue to see only the absolute best. Why is that? Why is it so different this time? Seriously, has there truly never been another?

Why am I so incapable of seeing the damn truth when it's been right in front of my face for all these years?

Fuck if I know. It just is what it is. I just am what I am.

Years ago, I wrote that, if I could step back and take a good look at myself, I'd laugh my ass off. Maybe that's still true, but I bet there would be an awful lot of tears as well. I'm just stuck. I don't know what to do, or if I should do anything at all.

Some things never change.

Like I said, this doesn't count. This isn't even close.

I guess my recent blogging hiatus has mostly been innocent. I upgraded my PC, in several stages, from XP Pro to Windows 7 Professional 64-bit, and the upgrades didn't go very smoothly. My computer was down for well over a week.

But it's back now. I was actually very pleasantly surprised by the two different Microsoft support girls I talked to. They were very patient and knowledgeable. I also like to imagine that they were hot.

So now there are no more excuses for not writing anything. None except the usual ones, that is. None of that has changed. Just more of the same old shit.

Tonight, my tentative plan is to go out to my garage, glare at my phone, and drink a New Holland Night Tripper. It's a very yummy beer, and it's 10.8% ABV. So maybe I'll be loosened up enough to actually write something later.

I'm not making any promises, though.