I've thought about this all day, and there's just no way I can make last night seem even remotely interesting.

So I'm going to stick with boring. It's what I do best after all.

The place was fucking crowded. I wanted to leave. I had myself a half a Guinness (1030) and planned to go someplace else, anyplace else where I could actually sit down and actually hear myself think. I was, in fact, on my way back to my truck to head over to Buckhead's but HatGirl text-messaged me and said that she was her way.

So I turned around and went back inside, to where the strangers and idiots had once again taken over.

I don't think I like this new Rich O's very much. This new Rich O's where all of the assholes that used to stay out front, out of my way, are now suddenly compelled by the new smoking policy to come into Rich O's proper.

It's just so fucking crowded.

One of the PBDs remarked that the crowd was certainly good for the owners, and I have to agree that this is true. For now. But what happens when all of the regulars get so sick and tired of standing around all night waiting for a place to sit that they stop bothering to come in at all? What happens when they decide that it's not even worth checking to see what the crowd is like? What happens when they just go somewhere else?

I don't know the answers, and I don't have any solutions. I am pretty sure, however, that doubling the size of the place, but reserving that new space for port tastings and other "special" functions, when it's asses to elbows every single fucking Friday night - well that just doesn't seem like the most brilliant thing I've ever heard of.

But it's none of my business. I'm just an innocent bystander, a victim.

But anyway, the whole night sucked. We did eventually get to move over to the living room area, but my mood was already shot. I sat on the throne and listened to everyone else yammer on and on about various topics. HatGirl and I traded some text messages back and forth because it just seemed easier even though she was sitting three feet away from me.

I had myself a Smithwick's (676). I was still drinking the lightweight stuff. I guess a part of me was still hoping that I'd get up the nerve to just leave and go somewhere else, and I wanted to keep my alcohol intake low enough to keep that possibility open.

I pussed out, and I lost all ambition to try to salvage a Friday night. I had most of a bottle of Stone Smoked Porter (154), and LuckyFucker had the rest. I was going to order a Weihenstephaner, but surprise! they were out. That's probably my fault. They're also out of Baltika 6. That's probably my fault too.

So I ordered a Fischer's Amber Ale, and only drank a little bit of it, then I went home.

What a waste of a night.

I am irritated by your lie.

You lie to yourself. You lie to him. You lie to me.

The truth sits somewhere between the depths of your lie and the pinnacle of your desire.

I am irritated by your lie.

But you, you should be livid.

You apologized for touching me, but it was unnecessary.

I felt the heat from your body, but it did not warm me.

These are good things, I think.

Timing is everything.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote that I'd never be in any of Ella's polls.

Now I've not only been in one, I came in third. Not too bad at all.

I'm still going to go out and drown my sorrows tonight, though.

Thanks to everyone who voted for me, whether because of pity, or extortion, or guilt, or whatever.

Right now, I don't know what to say to you.

Right now, I don't know how I feel about you.

Right now, I need you more than I ever have before.

How can I survive without loving you?

How can I remember to breathe, when for so long I only bothered to breathe because of you? Because someday you might come back into my life, and I lived for that chance?

You kept me alive, because you were my life.

And now, now I don't know what the fuck is going on. How can my thoughts of you be so easily pushed aside? What cruel twist of fate has dropped this, this harlot into my life to divert my attention and muddle my thoughts?

I know that I love you. I know that she is nothing compared to you. I know these things like I know that the sky is blue and the ocean is wet.

But she is here, and you are not.

But she is here, and you are not.

But she is here, and you are not.

Right now, I need you more than I ever have before, but you are not here.

You are not here, and I know that I should miss you.

But I don't. Not right now.

Take that chance. I'm worth it, and I've gone through a lot to be ready for it.

The other night, I drank a bottle of yummy Alaskan Smoked Porter and wrote a bunch of snippets of boring crap. One of those snippets was this:

I think about a couple of my friends who've recently started reading my 'blog. I try to keep things light for them - but not too light. I want to come off as neither a lunatic nor as a child. This is easier said than done. Especially when I'm both. I want to come off as insightful at times, and as brilliant at others. This is easier said than done. Especially when I'm neither.

We'll see if I can write anything coherent without alcohol in my bloodstream. I have my doubts.

The problem is, I don't seem to be able to write anything that's either interesting or well-written unless that writing comes from my heart. My emotions are the source of everything I've ever written that I considered readable.

Because of this, I tend to stick with those same emotional topics and rehash them to death. Beat that dead horse into bloody pulp.

So someone new to my 'blog comes along, reads some of my drivel, and makes conclusions based on it.

Conclusions that are often less than accurate. Or at least not timely.

SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: This is the third time I've restarted this entry. I know what I want to write, but I'm having a hard time deciding how to write it.

But what are people supposed to think about me, when they read my 'blog?

Read something from the Fall of 2003, and you'll be so bored that you'll never read anything by me again. You'll probably volunteer for a lobotomy to prevent accidentally reading something I've written.

Read some of the later stuff, and you'll feel a little sorry for me. You'll think my writing is insane, and obsessive, and overly dramatic, but some of what I write is at least interesting and/or well-written and/or entertaining.

But what are you supposed to think about me?

I read back through my old entries, and there is of course one theme that keeps popping up. That fucking dead horse. I write about it because it's what I know, and it's what I feel, and it's - I guess comfortable would be a good word.

But it's not me. Not anymore. Not, at least, to anywhere near the extent that it used to be. That's what I want people to think about me when they read my 'blog:

I'm okay. Or I will be.

I get better all the time. Every day I wake up with a little less pain, and every night I go to sleep with a little less feeling that the day was wasted because she didn't share it with me.

I think I'm what you might call emotionally bruised.

But that bruise is fading.

So what should people think about me, when they read my 'blog?

I'd like people to think that I'm a person, an human being, just as capable of pain, or passion, or selfishness, or friendship, or stupidity, as anyone else. I'd like people to not be afraid of me, or of hurting my feelings. I'd like people to know that they don't need to tiptoe around me. That I'm stronger than I seem.

I'd like people to understand that there are some things about me that they may never understand, because I don't even understand them myself.

But that's okay, and so am I.

So, as far as Ella's contest goes, instead of resorting to negative campaigning, like some people, I think I'll take the high road and just say why you should vote for me.

1. I take the high road.


2. I'm evil now, or at least I'm working on it.


3. I'm apparently irresistible, at least in Las Vegas.


4. I can spell irresistible in only two tries.


5. I can be friends with anyone, even a rock.


6. I've never murdered anyone, even if they deserved it.


7. Even though I'm The Supreme Idiot Of The Entire Fucking Universe, I don't let it go to my head. I'm all humble and shit.