As I'm clearly unfit for the world, and as the world is clearly unfit for me, tonight I'm just going to stay home and drink some fucking pumpkin beer. I was saving this, but oh well.

Jack's Pumpkin Spice Ale

(bottle) Clear medium amber in color. Small head. Aroma of pumpkin and spices. The flavor was more spicy and metallic than I was expecting. There was also some hop bitterness that I didn't care for at all. Decent is all I can say.

I can see it in my face, when I dare to look into the mirror. My eyes, they're so tired, so sad. And there is no real escape, even far away from any mirror. Escape exists in a pair of hazel eyes, and nowhere else. The rest of the time, this permeates my bones and my muscles and my heart. I can feel it, right now, weighing me down. Pulling me under. It's more a part of me than anything else. It's who I am, now. It's what I am, now.

---

I used to think that I knew how this would end. Not that it would end, I'm not quite that much of a pessimist. Yet. But if it ended, I thought I knew how and why. I was so sure. It was going to be all my fault, but I wouldn't be the one to end it.

Schlafly's Pumpkin Ale

(bottle) Clear copper in color. Small head that dissipated almost immediately. A very nice aroma of cinnamon and other spices. Medium mouthfeel. Very good flavor of all sorts of spices and, of course, pumpkin. The 8% ABV is hidden very well. A very good beer.

I watch this destroy her, and I feel it destroy us. There's nothing I can do. I've already tried my best, and it wasn't enough. My words may as well have been silent. My face invisible. My heart irrelevant.

---

Lately, though, I haven't been so sure. Maybe it won't be her. Maybe it'll be me who recognizes and does what needs to be done. Walks away. I hope not. There's nowhere to go.

Post Road Pumpkin Ale

(bottle) Slightly hazy amber. Smallish head. Aroma of pumpkin and spices. Thin mouthfeel, but the flavor is very good. There's a bit of a bite - not bitter - that is a pleasant surprise. Very good.

But can I ever be happy, being so close and yet so far? I honestly don't know the answer to that question. All I know is that I want to try. With everything that I am and everything I ever will be, I want to try. I don't ever want to give up.

So many people advised me to lie to her. To keep living my lie of omission. "Don't tell her everything," they said. "Just be happy with what you have," they said. "Don't rock the boat," they said.

But the damn boat was already sinking. So I sounded the alarm. I stopped lying.

And then, yesterday, she said that nobody ever says what's on their mind, except for me. I took that as a compliment.

---

She keeps using the f-word to describe what we're doing. But I don't think of it that way at all. It's not a friendship, at least not from my perspective.

Nope, from where I sit, it's a one-sided love affair.

A million times better than a friendship, and a million times worse.

---

Considering how I started missing her before I'd made it halfway out of her parking lot last night, of course I wanted to go back later and see her some more. But, considering how I actually started missing her before I'd gone three steps out of her door, I didn't think it would be a good idea.

---

Yesterday the only beer I had was about half a Schlenkerla Marzen (6016) at 1:00 or so. I have some pumpkin beers in my fridge, but I'm saving those for something.

---

This was funny in real life. Not mean at all.

The problem was the dust. It got into everything, onto everything. The color of brown sugar, the consistency of baby powder, it settled and stuck to everything it touched, Which, like I said, was everything.

So many of my stories begin and end the same way. I sit at the bar, I drink, I pay, and I leave. But sometimes there's more to it than that. Hiding in the crevices, there might be much more than that. The first problem is noticing. The second problem is giving a shit.

But seriously, where did all that fucking dust come from? I think I'd have noticed getting so lost in Wyoming that I ended up on Mars.

My beer tasted like dust. My cigarettes tasted like dust. Luckily, I wasn't hungry, or I'd have ended up with a burger that tasted like dust.

This particular day, I wasn't in much of a hurry. I had a week to make it to New Orleans, and I figured it would only take a couple more days at most. So I decided to stop at noon, in this little dustbowl of a town in Wyoming. There was no particular reason that I picked that particular town. No charming name or majestic scenery caused me to veer off the highway where I did. Or, I think that maybe I just had to pee. I wish I had a better reason, but sometimes you've got to take what you've got and try to be happy.

I liked that little town, though. And that little bar. It was pretty much the opposite of every place I'd ever lived, and that had a definite appeal to me. I could even see myself living there for a while, if the opportunity presented itself, and if it wasn't for that damn dust.

"After I lived here about five years, I stopped noticing it," the bartender told me.

He had a little black nametag pinned to his brown flannel shirt. That nametag might have been the most expensive decoration in the entire place.

"Dusty," it said.

So she asked me if I was mad. I'm not mad, I'm retarded. Big Difference.

And then, I went to lunch at The Pub - Newcastle (11498) - and surprise! It was a bonus AlliDay!

And then, desperately craving interaction with a girl who doesn't make me crazy(er), I arranged to have lunch with HatGirl this Friday. That should be very nice, as it's been a long time since it's just been just me and HatGirl. What with the whole her-getting-married and stuff.

Also, I can't follow my own fucking advice, so why should it bother me that nobody else follows it? I'll tell you why. Because I don't have a choice in the matter.

I've got all this damn pumpkin beer in my fridge, and now I don't know what's going to happen with it. Worst case would be that I'll drink it, I suppose. By myself. Like a chump.

Also, I think I'd be pretty pissed if I were a pigeon. I mean, being able to fly would be cool. But the rat with wings nickname would get old very quickly, and I'd really be pissed off about not being able to take a step without my head jerking back and forth like I was having a seizure or something.

Also, I really and truly don't think there's any cruelty behind any of this. I don't think my strings are being yanked just to watch me dance. Unfortunately for me, the results are exactly the same no matter what the intentions might be. I end up looking like a jackass, and everyone gets a good laugh out of it. Everybody except me, that is.

I need a nap.

And a vacation. Mustn't forget that.

Today I had what I thought was a pretty good idea for an entry. I even started to write it, in my little notebook while I sat at Sportstime waiting for my sister to call. But then some loud idiots took the booth next to me, and all concentration was lost.

I still know the gist of what I wanted to write, but there's a problem. I wanted to write about being in a weird mood, but I have to be in a weird mood to write about it coherently. A weird mood like I was in today, at about 1:00.

Now, not so much.

The thing is, about the weird moods that I get into, the thing is that there's always an element of detachment about them. I know I've touched on this before.

Like everyone else, I get sad, I get happy, I get worried, I get optimistic. Just normal shit, I suppose. But the thing I like about my weird moods is that I can notice my feelings, and even reflect on them for a while. They don't overwhelm me, the way that they are so wont to do.

I like that. I find myself very interesting, I guess.

Somebody has to do it.

Man, I was in a mood when I wrote this. Go read it. I'll wait.

............

I happened across that entry this afternoon, looking for something else entirely. But that old and irrelevant entry made me wonder.

With all this groping around that I'm doing, what if I found that broken handle for that broken switch?

Would I try to make repairs, so that I could switch it off again?

It's an interesting question, certainly, but the answer is indistinct to me.

Maybe if I'd open my damn eyes, I could see more clearly.

Another repost, again from about three years ago. I think I'd have written something like this today, if I hadn't already written it.

Being the type of person that I am, I don't seem to be capable of having an idea and simply letting it solidify on its own.

Nope, once something begins to form in my head, I'll obsess over it until I have it properly defined and categorized. If I can't do that then I'll at least come up with a metaphor for it.

I've read that when Titanic was struck, a lot of the passengers gathered up on deck to see what had happened. Some of them reported hearing a noise, but they couldn't describe what the noise was. It turns out, or so I've read anyway, that they hadn't heard anything at all. The sound that they thought they'd heard was actually the silence that fell upon them when the engines were shut down.

They'd simply noticed that something was different, but they didn't know what.

And that, my dear readers, is probably as close as I'm going to get to what I've been feeling lately.

I've noticed a change in the noise level within me. Something LOUD, I think, has either gone silent or is at least running more quietly than it has in a long time.

What does it mean? I don't know, but I have my suspicions.

We'll see.

I think the thing about this time around, the thing that makes this period of silence vastly different than the last one, is that this time I know it won't last.

I'm going to enjoy it while I can, though. Maybe catch up on my sleep.

Sometimes, you slam your eyes shut. As quickly as you can, but not quickly enough.

It's too late. You've already seen the truth. And that truth, it burns itself into you. It sets up residence in your soul.

And it eats away at everything. It devours everything. Nothing is safe.

Eyes squeezed shut, you frantically grope the darkness, looking for something, anything.

But there's nothing to find. There's nothing left. It's all gone.

Devoured by the truth.

I'm not really sure what I was expecting at the reception, I just know that it wasn't what I found.

I think maybe I thought there'd be more of HatGirl's and LuckyFucker's friends there. But it seemed, to me at least, to be about 99% family members. Not that there was anything wrong with that, or that it was a bad thing. It just wasn't what I was expecting. I guess I'd figured that NotHideousGirl would at least show up, and so I'd have somebody to talk to.

Anyway, I arrived pretty much right on time. The guests were gathered out on the lawn of the place. I'd seen HatGirl and LuckyFucker waiting around the side of the building, but when I tried to go say hello I was shooed away. Apparently there was an agenda for the thing, and that agenda did not include guys from the bar talking to the happy couple before the scheduled time. Not even guys as awesome as me.

So, I waited on the lawn with everyone else, like a chump. Eventually, the bridal party had a little parade, and they ended up on the steps where they had this candle ceremony. Then they had another parade, except all of us guests followed them this time.

The bridal party stood at the back door and greeted all of us guests. So I finally got to say hi to HatGirl.

HatGirl!

Yay!

Oh yeah, LuckyFucker was there, too.

And I think that was just about the last time I saw either of them, except as blurs, until it was time to leave.

I never did get to have that dance with HatGirl. It was weird. It seemed to me like the DJ took off running down the sidewalk about a minute into the first song. I have no idea what that was all about.

Oh, I almost forgot! I caught the garter!

Apparently, that means that I'll be the next guy to get married. And this one four-year-old girl caught the bouquet, so she'll be the next girl to get married.

Should be an interesting race.

This is a repost from three years ago. I like knowing that I used to be able write this kind of drivel.

When you live your life in total darkness, it doesn't take much.

The smallest spark, the slightest flash of light, can capture your full attention. Even after it's gone, the memory of that flash lives on.

Sometimes that flash is welcomed, but most times, most times it's only reminding you of what's missing.

A man gone blind does not always wish for sight, for there can be comfort in the dark.

Acceptance. Tranquility. Peace. All erased by a spark, a glimmer, a splash of light that does nothing but burn the retinas and leave ghost images floating and intruding.

A flash is nothing by itself. It's over in an instant. But the memory of it lingers, and the blind man sometimes wishes he could forget.

Damn, I just noticed that I already reposted this entry, this past July. Oh well, can't be helped. Google's got it in its grasp now.