Resolve is a problem, of course.

It never lasts forever, so it never lasts long enough. Bad memories fade away and good memories rush in to fill the gaps, and resolve becomes a vague notion of a silly inkling, and nothing more.

And another thing is that there's always something else that I want to say. Not magic words that will fix everything - I've given up on finding such words - but instead an extrapolation of words I've already said. A clearer explanation as to why I am the way I am and why things are the way they are and why things must be the way that they must be.

I guess, just like everyone else, I want to be understood.

After all this time, I'm still met with doubt and disbelief. I'm still assaulted by accusations of exaggeration, still cut by cruel words that would mean nothing if not for their source.

I tried so hard, but I failed. There should be no shame in that; at least I did finally try. There should be no shame, but shame is all I feel sometimes.

And now I'm trying to give up. As if that makes any sense. I'm trying to accept my failure and I'm trying to stop trying.

I keep failing at that, too.

Because resolve is a problem, of course.

I want to go down to the Derby City Classic for a while tonight. It should be the last few rounds of the banks tournament. It should be fun.

But, the thing is, it's supposed to snow. Somewhere between four inches and eight feet, depending on which TV station you watch, and I don't really want to get stranded in an expensive casino when I don't have much money.

So I'd get down there and hope it didn't snow and then, if it didn't snow, I'd blame myself. And I like snow. Plus, my sister Neisha would kill me if I made it not snow.

And then there's other stuff. I can't write about the other stuff.

Okay, so I'm pissed. BFD.

It's my right, and I seriously doubt that anyone would try to tell me that it's without reason.

This fucking bullshit. This situation, as I keep calling it. I got fucking tired of being sad about it, and so now I'm pissed.

It's strange how anger and sadness are perceived, especially when displayed by a man.

Both are certainly perceived as negative emotions. But it's sadness that's seen, much more often (as in every fucking time) as a sign of weakness.

After all, only little kids and women get sad.

Men don't get sad. Men are strong. Men don't cry. Men don't even want to cry. It's not even an option for men.

Besides, it's easier, being pissed. And it make more sense.

I am a man, after all.

It's about fucking time that I started acting like one.

I have a nosebleed.

What's up with that?

I'll tell you exactly what it was like for me.

It was like looking at the Sun, and realizing that it was no longer blindingly bright. Then it was like looking at the Sun some more, and wondering what the big deal was.

Boring, really.

I don't know how long this will last. Probably not forever, though, and I think that's too bad.

It's kind of nice, not being blinded.

---

Wow, this was a fucked up week. Even by my standards.

---

What I want now is nothing.

I need to be clear; it's not that I don't want something, or even that I don't want anything.

Nope, it's just like I said. I want nothing.

I doubt that I'll get it.

I wonder who was more surprised. I called, and that must have surprised her. She answered, and that certainly surprised me.

It's the weirdest thing, how a short time on the phone, hearing a voice, can ease so much tension, erase so many doubts, clear up so many misunderstandings.

I just wanted to know if she was okay, that's all. I didn't ask her to come back. I didn't even ask her if she missed me. I just asked if she was okay, and she said that she was. She asked if I was okay, and I said that I wasn't.

Truth. She taught me its value, and I haven't forgotten.

We talked for an hour or so. It was a lot like old times, except we've obviously both moved on. She's moved further than I have.

It was nice. I really miss her sometimes, but I'm glad she got away from me when she did. Before I'd have hurt her all over again.