I suppose that I'm pretty good at waiting. As I should be, what with all the practice I've had.

But still, I'd like to be better at it. I know that I can be better at it, and I'm not really sure why I suck so much sometimes. Probably something to do with the difference between impatience and anticipation. It's a thin line there, I think. Like the proverbial you-know-what hair.

Anyway, now I find myself waiting. Maybe for nothing, maybe for something. I asked, and now I wait for a response. I do that a lot, it seems.

Worth the wait?

Certainly, as long is this newfound pseudo-patience of mine pays off.

And if it doesn't?

Well, then maybe tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that.

It's not like I've got anything better to do.

I was going to say please stand by, but that would be mean if I end up never writing here again.

How do I write about the end of something, if I never really wrote about the thing itself?

Somehow, that's all, folks just doesn't seem appropriate.

How do I write about the end of a life, if that life turned out to have been meaningless?

Somehow, ta-da! just doesn't seem to cut it.

I need to stop writing now. I've got too much to say.

RockGirl's boyfriend can be so sweet to her sometimes.

Okay, I'm officially sick.

Thanks for caring.

I might be sick.

It's hard to tell for sure. I might have a bit of a sinus infection, or I might be suffering from lack of sleep. Or maybe it's a combination of both.

Felt like crap all day today. I was very excited about coming straight home after work and taking a nap.

The nap thing - it only lasted half an hour before the nightmare came.

This one, I remembered. Usually, lately, I don't remember what it is that jolts me awake, bathed in my own sweat with my heart threatening to leap out of my chest. But this one, I remembered.

That image is burned into me now, so I doubt I'll sleep tonight either. Unless I'm sick.

Fuck, I hope I'm sick.

I did something unusual tonight. Unusual for me, anyway. Others' mileage may vary.

I searched for mouse poop. With my hands.

Let me say that again.

I. Searched. For. Mouse. Poop. With. My. Hands.

Why did I do such a thing?

Thanks for asking.

Because I'm a good guy, that's why. Oh, and also because it was too dark to see and somebody doesn't have a flashlight.

Anyway, I found no mouse poop, or any other incriminating evidence. This was a good thing, I think.

I got to be a good guy without the hassle of getting mouse poop on my hands.

For weeks and months, people have been telling me things that I already know. Well, guess what; I already know those things.

My odds are abysmal, but as soon as I give up, as soon as I walk or run or crawl or swim away, my odds will reduce to zero. Can't have that. No way. Can't wait this long and come this far and then just quit.

This is my choice.

I will have my regrets, certainly, but never again will I have to ask myself, What if I'd tried harder? What if I'd given it everything I had? What if I'd laid everything on the line?

Fuck that. No regrets. Not this time.

I have done and said everything I could do. I've been totally, almost painfully honest. I've been loyal and attentive and generous and caring. I've given every ounce of my being to this, and there's only one thing left that I can do.

Wait.

I still have some patience left, believe it or not. Sometimes it wears thin, and sometimes it even seems to run out completely. I always seem to find a reserve, though, welling up from some dark place that I didn't know existed.

Good things come to those who wait, huh?

Well, I'm waiting. Been doing it for a very long time now.

People keep telling me things that I already know.

This is my choice, to wait.

To die trying, or to simply die? Or, perhaps, to live?

This time, if I die again, this time I will do it standing up.

So the challenge, as I see it, is to see if I can sit here and write an entry. Despite being very tired. Despite being fairly distracted. And, as an added challenge, can I write an entry before the battery on my laptop runs out?

I fell asleep a little while ago. Right there on her couch. Very strange. I mean, I had a whole four and a half hours of sleep last night. That should be plenty for me.

Oh, shit. I hope I'm not coming down with something. That would suck. I have had the sniffles today. Crap.

My fingers are willing to type, but my brain doesn't seem ready hold up its end of the bargain. I'm having a hard time thinking of my own name, let alone an idea for a hastily written blog entry.

I could, I suppose, try to condense the last few weeks of my life. Strip out all of the things I can't write, tone down some of the emotions, respect everyone's privacy as much as I can. I could do those things, but then what would be left?

I and to what when kitties beer cold.

Another thing I could do is make something up. Write some fiction. I get this bug up my ass every now and then to write some fiction. There are two problems with this idea.

Problem the first, I don't know if I can write fiction.

Problem the second, I don't have any ideas for fiction, either.

So, I'm basically fucked.

I wonder, does this count as an entry yet?