What is the proper response when a reader completely misinterprets one of your metaphors? Should you gently correct them so that they may experience your words as you intended, or should you let them keep their delusions and be glad that your words have meaning to someone - even if it's not the meaning you intended?

I had a dream a while ago. A nightmare actually. I started to write about it, but I never finished. Even now, I cannot think about it long enough to describe it. It tears at me, and haunts me from inside my soul, and I'm afraid that by describing it, I'll relive it.

I'm at such a fucking pivotal point right now. In my life, in my work, in my journal. In everything. I sometimes think I could toss it all away and start fresh, but then I remember that it'd still be the same old me, so why bother?

I analyze things too much. Especially those things that are beyond analysis. You'd think that I would have learned my lesson You'd think that I'd just let my heart run the show. After all, what has by brain done for me lately?

If this ends the same way it ended last time, at least I know that I'll get through it.

One of those stupid nights for me.

I let my nap run on for too long, so now it's after midnight and I'm not even close to being tired. Not that I've been sleeping very much during normal hours anyway. Just having the option would be nice.

Not tonight though. Not for a while at least.

I've pulled a bottle of Alaskan Smoked Porter from my fridge, and so I'll enjoy this, one of my favorite beers, for probably the next hour. After that, who knows?

Maybe I'll sleep, and then maybe I'll snap awake in the middle of the night, as I did last night, and stare at my ceiling until I can't stand it anymore, then I'll get up and check my e-mail or something.

Perhaps I'll have one of those dreams again. One of those dreams that annoy the shit out of me because she isn't in it, but somebody else is. Somebody that I have no business dreaming about.

Maybe I'll pick up my phone, and twirl it through my fingers.

Or maybe I'll just sit here and type random boring crap until my alarm goes off in the morning.

The problem is, I think I'm running out of road here.

It feels like I've been on it forever. I never cared where it led me, as long as it was far from my starting point. As long as I could finally get to a place where all I saw behind me was the road, and everything else was hidden by the distance and the time through which I'd traveled.

I really should have thought ahead a little.

Now this road is ending, and I don't know what to do next.

Sometimes I think that maybe I should just turn around and walk back the other way.

It's not the destination that matters, it's the journey.

Isn't that the saying?

Some crap like that, anyway.

Not much to report, but I want to put something out there, so I will.

Last night, SassyGirl called to remind me that (a) They're trying to make Mondays into Gay Night at Rich O's, and that (b) I'd been named an honorary gay and was therefore expected to attend.

I told her that I'd think about it. I spent some time trying to come up with an excuse that would be better than but I have to work tomorrow and I wasn't having much luck. I thought to myself that if HatGirl was going to be there I'd definitely go.

Two seconds later, my phone rang. It was HatGirl, wondering if I was going to Rich O's. I told her of course I was.

So I went.

In an attempt to force myself to not spend the entire night at Rich O's, I went for the strong stuff right off the bat. My Delirium Tremens (389) was delicious.

As I said, not much to report. SassyGirl, SassyBoy, and several of their friends were there, and they pretty much just talked to each other. HatGirl was there, and she spent most of her time talking with some old bald dude while I wished that I was old(er) and bald.

My second (and last) beer was a half glass of Bell's Kalamazoo Stout (215). It was also yummy. By the time I finished it, SassyGirl had vanished, and HatGirl had gone home.

Just when I was ready to leave, SpikeBoy came in, so I spent a few extra minutes catching up with him. I'm pretty sure that I told him some stuff that I shouldn't have told him. Hopefully, he's better at keeping his mouth shut than I am.

He couldn't be worse.

Why, I wonder, did you feel the need to share that particular bit of information with me?

Sure, I pretended to be glad for you, and I suppose the non-selfish part of me is glad for you, but c'mon!

Next time why not just kick me in the nuts?

Right now, I really want to write something, but I won't.

I wonder, do you want to read something, but you can't?

Read my mind, if you dare, and you may see those words that I want to write.

Read my mind, if you dare, and you may see those words that you want to read.

At least I hope you want to read them.

If not, then please ignore this entire entry.

It wasn't written for you anyway.

Unless it was.

Who's Your Happy Bunny?
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After reading this, you may decide that I'm an asshole.

If you do, then you're in good company, because I agree with you.

I can tell you what happened, but I cannot tell you what I said to make it happen. This stupid discretion thing is such a pain.

So I can tell you that I made MixedSignalGirl cry last night, and that's about it. Even if I tell you that I was being completely honest, even if I tell you that we've always been brutally honest with each other, even if I tell you that I'm as bothered by what I had to say as she was, none of that matters because I can't tell you what I said. I can't tell you because, because...

Fuck! I can't even tell you why I can't tell you.

So feel free to let your imagination run away with you, if that's what you want to do. I made the girl who's probably the only person to love me in over a decade - maybe ever for all I know - cry. I deserve whatever ire your imagination can generate, because I knew before I said anything what the outcome was going to be, and I still said it.

SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: This is completely unrelated, but I'm looking at the comic at davethepa's journal as I write this, and I really wish I could draw. I should work on that I think.

Anyway, there are two slightly mitigating factors. First, everything I said was the truth, even though it made zero sense, not even to me. Second, we've had a couple of talks since, and we're okay again. Until next time I suppose. Perhaps she'll learn to not ask questions of me unless she's sure that she wants to know the answer.

Not that I'm blaming her. Not at all. It's my stupid heart's fault. Again.

All of this drama took place at Buckhead's. I'd gone there to pass the time last night, rather than just sit around the house waiting for Nat to show up in my visitor list. Plus, I did need to talk to MixedSignalGirl. Plus they still have Upland Chocolate Stout on tap.

I called her from the Hooter's parking lot, and I made a quick run into that place to talk with my cousin Jeff for a few minutes, then I went across the street to Buckhead's.

As I said, I can't get into the conversation too much. Or at all.

To drink, I had a couple pints of Upland Chocolate Stout (262) and, after MixedSignalGirl had left in tears, I had a Weihenstephaner (311). Then I remembered to order some fried green tomatoes for VigilanteGirl.

I wrote recently that sometimes shit just happens. Well, shit is definitely happening. I wish I could explain it. I wish I could have explained it to MixedSignalGirl, and I wish I could explain it to my readers, and I wish I could explain it to myself.

But I can't, so I must be an asshole.

And that's right back where I started with this entry.

You ever wake up at 2:00 AM and think, wow, I sure am stupid?

How about, do you ever wake up at 2:00 AM and think, wow, Dave sure is stupid?

At about the time I arose from my semi-sleep with the realization that the title of that last comic made no sense whatsoever, at about the time I decided that I'd never get back to sleep until I changed it, my phone rang.

MixedSignalGirl.

"Hey, were you awake?" she asked.

"Hi. I actually just woke up," I answered.

"Me too. You know what woke me up?"

"What?"

"I can't figure out if you like Sam Adam's beer or not. It's driving me crazy. And that title makes no sense."

"I just realized the same thing! I'm going to change it now," I said, thinking that this was a little weird.

"What are you going to change it to?" she asked.

"It doesn't matter," I answered. "Anything would be better than that."

"Okay, call me tomorrow?"

"I will. Bye Miss."

I never did tell her if I like Sam Adam's or not. That'll give us something to talk about tomorrow.