Tonight, in honor of the return of the show 24 to my TV, I had myself an Alaskan Smoked Porter (330) while I watched the season premiere.

This show and this beer don't really have anything in common, except that they're each one of my favorite things in the world.

I can't believe that David Palmer and Michelle are dead.

I wish, I'd like to be, at least a zillionth as cool as Kiefer Sutherland. Then maybe I wouldn't have to resort to evilness to lure in the ladies.

But anyway.

The other night I wrote this as part of a night of drunken rambling:

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 get in these moods every now and then. I just get so damn apathetic about everything and everyone around me - I figure there's got to be something better out there. Somewhere. Anywhere. And I start to imagine that better place, and I begin to tune out the reality of where I am. Where I'm stuck.

And it's not just external. This 40-year-old shell of a man that I inhabit, I know that there's more I could do with it than eat, sleep, work, drink, occasionally fuck, and write random journal entries.

But what would I do?

But where would I go?

I've asked myself those two questions so many times that it's become almost reflexive to me.

Sometimes, every now and then, I even manage to come up with an answer. Not a particularly good answer, but an answer nonetheless.

Anything but this.

Anywhere but here.

Tonight - I say tonight but this really goes much deeper than that - tonight I realized that I've been asking myself the wrong questions.

It's not "Where?" and it's not "What?" that I should be asking myself.

It's "Who?"

You see, I've become very much afraid that I'm not going to be truly happy as long as I'm alone. And, and this is the kicker, I'm very much afraid that I'm going to be alone for a very very very long time. Maybe even forever.

I never thought that this bothered me before. I thought that I was happy before. I was my own man, living my own life and making my own decisions. But lately, lately that little nagging voice inside me has been getting louder and louder. I can't help but hear it now. It's only a matter of time before I start listening to it.

But Dave, what good is a life if there's nobody to share it with?

Maybe it's always been this way. Maybe I mistook contentedness for happiness for so long that they became interchangeable in my mind. Everything was fine with me. Not great, but still good.

And then I met her and everything went to shit. Like a magician's mirrors, all of my illusions shattered. I was forced to look at the cold hard truth of what I was.

Not just alone, but lonely.

I sit here tonight, January 15th, 2006, and I look into the future. I don't particularly like what I see.

Actually, I fucking hate what I see.

Bridges burn all around me, and I either don't notice or I don't care or I don't understand what's happening until it's too late.

Great, now I'm in a bad mood.

Just fucking great.