When you're concerned about having a nervous breakdown, then merely being irritated all night could almost count as having a good time.

Almost.

Last night was Virtual Friday because of Thanksgiving.

Yay!

The night before Thanksgiving is, traditionally, one of the busiest nights of the year for bars.

Boo!

I've seen bigger crowds at Rich O's, but not very many. I don't think that I've ever seen a more irritating crowd though.

So I didn't do much in the way of socializing. Talked for a while with this one dude who doesn't get a nickname.

To drink, I had a couple pints of Spezial RauchBier (860) then a half-pint of Smithwick's (630).

It was all quite dull. It definitely could have been better. It absolutely could have been much worse.

Well I struggled with this decision for a long time, but finally I made my choice.

I'm not going to write about what this date is. Was. Could have been.

Not because I don't remember, and not because I don't care.

Nope, I'm not going to write about it because that would be a privilege, not a right. And it's a privilege that I haven't been granted.

So I won't be writing a thing.

There's this one chick.

I'm not going to embarrass her by naming her here. She'll know who she is.

I think she's a fantastic writer. I've felt that way since I first discovered her, what seems like years ago, but I wasn't really able to say why I liked her writing so much. I mean, I was physically capable of saying it, and there was never any prohibition against saying it, I just couldn't find the proper words to describe my reasoning.

I may have found the words.

When I first read her journal, for a few joyous minutes, I thought she was someone else. Too quickly, I learned the truth, and I was a little disappointed with that knowledge. I wanted the person I thought she was, I wanted her to be the one writing those beautiful words.

Since then, I've gotten to know the real person behind those flowing phrases and I'm no longer disappointed. I'm blessed, and I'm glad that I was wrong when I thought she was someone else.

But the thing is, even though I know who's really doing the writing, when I read her words they go straight to my heart and, for just an instant, I forget what I know. For just an instant, I imagine that someone else writes those words. Sometimes I even imagine that I write them myself.

Her writing does that for me. It speaks the words that my heart wants to speak, but cannot. Or, it lets my heart hear the words that it's dying to hear, but which would not be spoken otherwise. That's why I think she's a fantastic writer - because her words, once written, don't need her anymore. Her words, once written, go to where they are needed the most, and they give voice to what would otherwise be silent.

Her words fill the silence in my soul with music that it can dance to. Even when it's a sad song, it feels good to dance.

Earlier I was irritated, but now I'm pissed.

Why am I pissed?

It's simple.

I'm pissed about being pissed at myself over my expected reaction to something that isn't going to happen anyway on a day that shouldn't mean a thing to me regarding a girl that shouldn't mean a thing to me.

I'm pre-pissed.

I'm irritated now, but I don't know why. Maybe I just needed a longer nap.

Tomorrow is Friday for us, so that's good, but tomorrow night is also when my stress will peak, or if not then, Friday night. If I make it past Friday night, I should be okay for a while. Like a week maybe, but by then I'll be in Las Vegas.

Monday after work I met up with RealTrainGirl and GreenBeerDude. I had myself a half-glass of Bell's Kalamazoo Stout (155) and then a half-glass of this stuff:

Belhaven Wee Heavy (10)

(draft) This was decent, but there was just something strange about it. Some fruity characteristic that I couldn't identify. There was also a bitterness that came out of nowhere at the finish.

I should probably be more willing to open up to the people that offer to help me. I guess I just don't feel like explaining everything all over again.

I should write something better than this. I hate it when a crappy entry is the first thing people see.

Happy Birthday to my sister Dina!

Sometime, in the next few days, I've got a decision to make.

Nothing Earth-shattering, except to me. It's just one of those things that, if I choose one way, I'll probably regret it for a very long time. But if, on the other hand, I chose the other way, I'll probably regret it for a very long time.

Hence my dilemma.

Of course, I could get lucky. I could die sometime in the next couple of days, thus sparing myself the burden of this impossible decision.

Yes, I'm kidding about the dying part.

A little bit anyway.

This fucking deadline is fast approaching, and yet I continue to procrastinate. This is not the way I used to be. Not the way I want to be. I want to be able to, simply and calmly, weigh the pros and cons of each choice, and then make a choice. Belly up. Be a man. Even if it's nothing more than the proverbial lesser of two evils, it's at least a choice that I make. Even if I choose incorrectly, at least it's an actual decision instead of another fucking cop-out.

This should not be that difficult. Chances are that nobody but me would ever even notice which choice I ended up making. So then why is it so damn hard to fucking decide?

Man, I'm saying fucking a lot in this entry. Hi, Grandma!

Seriously, wtf?

I was thinking today about eyes.

I love eyes. I love how they're the window to the soul.

There's just something primal about looking into the eyes of another living being.

Look a wild animal in the eyes, and it will either run away, or it will attack.

Look a child in the eyes, and some of their innocence and enthusiasm crosses over to you.

Look into the eyes of the one you love, but use caution, because you may not like what you see. Sometimes, that affection that you see, it's nothing more than your own feelings, being reflected back at you. Sometimes those feelings you glimpse are nothing more than pity or concern or even fear, twisted into something that's not really there, an illusion born of your own desperation. Sometimes, though they seem to be looking at you, their eyes are in fact focused a million miles away.

But every now and then...

If you're lucky...

Sometimes you meet the gaze of the one you love and what you see in their eyes, it combines with what they see in your eyes. It multiplies. Like feedback from a microphone placed to close to a speaker, it quickly overwhelms you with its intensity. You each feed off the emotions of the other, and for every moment that your eyes are locked together, your bond becomes stronger. You get lost, but it's okay because there's someone there with you, sharing it all with you. You're where you want to be. In their eyes. You never want to leave.

I love eyes. I love how they're the window to the soul.

All of the times I think about her, I think about holding her hand more often than I think about anything else. It was like we were separate, but when we held hands some circuit was completed and the energy within each of us became our energy instead. There's just something sweet about holding hands.

As a child, we hold our parents' hands, and it makes us feel safe and loved.

As we get a little older and enter grade school, holding hands is that first timid step towards romance, even when we're too young to know what romance is, and would be grossed out if we ever discovered the disgusting truth about what hand holding can lead to.

Older still, and hand holding is often replaced with making out, sex, and all of the other "adult" activities. Holding someone's hand seems to become a burden, an intrusion into our personal space. Besides, it's what kids do.

Then, at the end of our lives, if we're lucky, we find ourselves sitting on a porch with some special person who's shared their life with us, holding hands. It makes us feel safe and loved.

We spend our entire lives reaching out. Every now and then two people will reach out at the same time, and their hands will find each other.

When I think about her, I miss just about everything. But holding her hand, I miss that most of all.