Just do me already.

I see you nearly every day, and you get bolder and bolder each time I see you.

Would you please cut the crap and just have your way with me?

I promise I won't struggle. Unless you like that kind of thing.

To leave the parking lot at work in the morning you have to push a button. Once you push the button you have to open a metal gate and then walk across the street.

Because pushing the button and opening the gate is hard or something people are in the habit of checking behind them, and if anyone is following closely, holding the gate open for them.

Notice I said closely.

This morning I was a good 20 yards away from gate (crossing the tracks for those familiar with where I'm talking about) and this lady up ahead decided to stand there, holding the gate open, until I arrived.

Now the lady was obviously trying to be nice and polite, but what she was also inadvertantly doing was asking me to speed up, perhaps jog a little, to get to the gate and be all grateful and shit.

I was 20 yards away. She was being polite to the point of rudeness.

I didn't speed up to grab the gate and thank her. I did the next best thing.

I stopped, bent over, and pretended to tie my shoelace.

This took about 20 seconds, and when I stood back up I was pretty miffed to see that she was still standing there holding the gate!

Great, so now I not only had to run up to the gate and be all grateful, I also had to apologize for "tying" my shoelace.

I didn't do those things either. I patted my pockets, pretended to have left something in my car, turned around and walked the other way.

I was glad to see that she was gone from the gate when I returned with the "forgotten item" or I may have had to kiil her.

After, of course, I thanked her for being so damn polite and patient.

Today I wrote a letter.

Probably not a very good one but a very long one.

The topic: private.

The contents: private.

Although I have this 'blog, and I sometimes post crap that just seems way too personal about myself, my life, and the people in my life, there are some things that need to remain private.

This letter is one of them.

I'll have it ready if I ever need it, though some things should probably be said in person.

I think the reason I mention it here is to say how exhilarating it was, after so many weeks of wrapping things up in metaphors and obscure references, to be able to simply write something both true and comprehensible.

I've read that a lot of real writers, when asked why they write, answer the same way.

You don't write because you can. You write because you must. To not write would be to deny who you are.

Now of course I'm far from being a real writer, but I do seem to have this itch that can only be scratched by stringing words together and giving them some permanence - whether on paper, a computer file, or the Internet itself.

This letter I wrote today was freeing. I was able to say what I wanted without fear of repercussions because I had already decided to never send the letter..

It was a lot like my old journals that only I ever read. In those journals is the real me (at least the real me back when I wrote the things) - not some watered-down version of me so tempered by a desire for approval and acceptance that the "me" is nearly unrecognizable.

An example of the real me from 1991:

Evangeline Lilly from Lost.

Wow.

Not all is doom and gloom with me.

I had a few of my friends smell my Monte Carlo last night to see if they could detect the carcass odor.

NotGeorge said he couldn't smell anything.

ElPresidente and his wife both think the smell is simply the musty smell you'd get from too much moisture. I think they're wrong, but at least it means that the smell isn't as disgusting as it used to be.

CoffeeDude refused to smell my car. What's up with that I wonder.

dra-ma
n.
1. The quality or condition of being dramatic.

re-al-i-za-tion
n.
1. The act of realizing or the condition of being realized.

vul-ner-a-ble
adj.
1. Susceptible to injury.

out-gun
v.
1. To overwhelm or defeat.

shit
n.
1. Something considered disgusting, or poor quality, foolish, or otherwise totally unacceptable.

re-treat
n.
1. The act or process of withdrawing, especially from something hazardous, formidable, or unpleasant.
2. A place affording peace, quiet, privacy, or security.
3. A period of seclusion, retirement, or solitude.

in-ev-i-ta-ble
adj.
1. Impossible to avoid or prevent.

My beer selection tonight was fairly tame: two Belhaven's and two Piraats.

Other than that I spent some time with LaptopGirl, NotGeorge, CoffeeDude, and MisunderstoodGirl, talking about kites and paper and stuff.

None of that is relevant though.

What is relevant is that drama is inevitable, and I have chosen to do what I can to limit that drama to myself.

Man it sucks that my entries have seemed so tortured lately.

Things are not really as bad as a quick reading of my 'blog would make them seem. I'm actually more shocked than anything else. I really didn't expect to be in this situation ever again.

If I had to pick a single word to describe the last three months: fascinating.

If I had to pick a word to describe the last two days: overwhelming.

All that talk about balance and road trips and serial killers was simply an attempt to solidify my resolve. To remind myself that sometimes the right thing is not the easy thing.

Sometimes it's pretty damn tough.

I've been though this before actually. A long time ago in Omaha I found myself struggling with nearly the same situation. At that time I was able to make a clean break, to get the hell out before things progressed to their inevitable conclusion: Drama and pain.

This time around I cannot simply pack up and move to Seattle. I can, however, still do what's right. I cannot change the past, but I can prevent at least a small part of this particular future.

My friends at Rich O's will either understand or they won't - I can't even explain my actions without making things worse. Not that anyone would believe me anyway.

Everything that was wrong is now right. Everything that was right is now impossible. Nobody is more surprised than I am, because that which I've been fighting and denying, and which everyone else has been assuming and awaiting, is actually coming to pass. Despite my best intentions, I'm human after all.

This really blows.

For the better part of a decade I was content. Not over-the-top happy, but content.

Now that contentedness has given way to this terrible blend of vulnerability and uncertainty and shock, and I don't like it one bit.

I'll say it again, this really blows.

(I've edited the hell out of this entry, trying to make it a litle less gloomy. I've had little success though, because it is a gloomy subject after all.)

Still playing with CSS, I've made some of the letters that begin pages/sections stand out.

I thought this was a really good idea at first, but now I'm second-guessing myself.

I suppose I'll leave it like this for a while to see if I get used to it.

I wrote back in July that something had died in my Monte Carlo.

I tried several times to locate where the odor was coming from but I had no success.

Last night, feeling a little bored with myself and my life, I dedided to start driving the Monte Carlo more often. Sure, I'm trying to keep it as nice as I can, but I also get very little enjoyment out of it since I'm totally paranoid about door-dings and such. So I end up driving it one or twice avery couple of months, and I've put maybe 1000 miles on it since I inherited it.

Anyway, the smell of death is still in the air of my Monte Carlo. I think it's lessened over the past couple of months, but it's still noticeable.

I should probably start saving my money up to have the thing torn apart so the carcass of whatever it is can be removed.

I suppose I could say that last night was pivotal, but as this belief stems from a drunken realization instead of anything substantial, I'll probably just continue to wait and see. Perhaps I still have some common sense in reserve.

I arrived at Rich O's unfashionably early, having failed once again to decipher VigilanteGirl's flirtatious ramblings, and was surprised to see GeneralElectricGuy sitting in the living room area. I grabbed myself a Belhaven (very smooth and creamy on tap) and joined him and what turned out to be one of his coworkers.

I hadn't seen GeneralElectricGuy since the party last month, and I don't know him very well, but he seemed a little subdued. Later I guessed that this was simply because his friend CheeseGuy was doing enough talking for ten people.

The three of us talked about widely varying topics for a couple of hours, interrupted occasionally by TallLady trying to interject controversial topics into the mix. I finished my Belhaven and decided to try a Bell's Amber.

That was a waste of time. It sucked. Watery with orange peel flavoring.

So I went back to one of my favorites - a Piraat. Yummy but I knew it was way too early to be drinking the strong stuff. I'd have to pace myself.

At one point LaptopGirl joined us, and almost immediately declared that she'd be leaving after one beer. This makes twice in a row and so now I'm starting to get a little paranoid. This is also about the time I finished my Piraat and switched to Guinness.

CoffeeDude came in fairly late in the evening. This was quite cool because I hadn't seen him in over a month and I was actually becoming a little concerned. Everything's fine though - our schedules just haven't been overlapping.

Through all of this CheeseGuy kept up a steady stream of words, and once he and GeneralElectricGuy left the place seemed eerily silent. One pretty cool thing was that CheeseGuy paid my tab. I don't think that's ever happened before at Rich O's.

At one point NotGeorge came in and joined CoffeeDude and me in what was basically just sitting around sipping our beers.

I got home at about 11:30, realized that the thing which I've feared most may have come to pass, and spent the rest of the night staring at my ceiling.

When I first moved back to Indiana in 1998 I had a hell of a time finding a barber that wouldn't completely butcher my hair.

After maybe a year and a half of horrible haircuts given by perhaps a dozen different barbers I finally found a lady that cut it the way I wanted.

I told her then that at long as she could keep from butchering me she'd be the only person I would let cut my hair.

For nearly six years I've held to that promise, but lately I'm begun to question my resolve.

I'd guess that since March of this year, at least 50% of the trips I've made to my barber have been a complete waste of time.

She's been closed.

Today it happened again.

It's not like I'm showing up at the crack of dawn or on a holiday or right at closing time. I got there at 11:00 AM on a Friday. Every business in the world - except apparently my barber - is open at 11:00 AM on a Friday.

I really should have called first, but I didn't.

When you feel like you have to start calling businesses to see if they're open at 11:00 AM on a Friday it just may be time to find someone a little more consistent.