Eliza Dushku.

The guys in Wrong Turn kill everyone else but tie Eliza to a bed.

Can't really say I blame them.

For the Eliza on the bed thing. The killing people thing is really inexcusable.

So here's a list of some things I couldn't care less about.

Note that I said couldn't instead of could. People who say I could care less about whatever are idiots - unless they're actually trying to say that they do care about whatever it is.

As with all my lists, this one is not meant to be all-inclusive.

Those are just the things that popped into my head as I sat down to type this entry. There are countless more. I care about things that affect me and the people I love. I couldn't care less (note: proper usage again) about Martha Stewart getting richer, or about that one chick that just had her feeding tube removed, or about congressional subpoenas issued to steroid-ridden athletes.

I'm just selfish that way.

I know, it's a day late for St. Patrick's day.

One day an Englishman, a Scotsman, and an Irishman walked into a pub together. They each bought a pint of Guinness.

Just as they were about to enjoy their creamy beverage, three flies landed in each of their pints, and were stuck in the thick head.

The Englishman pushed his beer away in disgust.

The Scotsman fished the fly out of his beer, and continued drinking it, as if nothing had happened.

The Irishman, too, picked the fly out of his drink, held it out over the beer, and started yelling, "SPIT IT OUT, SPIT IT OUT YOU BASTARD!!!!"

Yesterday my thoughts were all about excuses and justification.

Today they're all about trepidation and apprehension.

I think it's a Thursday thing. The weekend is approaching and, chances are, the weekend is when the shit will hit the fan.

Probably not this weekend, maybe not ever, but that doesn't stop me from obsessing over the horrible possibility each and every week as Friday approaches.

I've got one hurdle left to cross. One potential obstacle standing between me and my goal of being a sane person again.

This scenario is, fortunately, not very likely. I could actually go so far as to call it unlikely. But I still can't stop worrying about it. Obsessing over it.

No matter how much I try, no matter how often I envision myself crossing that barrier, I just don't think I'd be able to do it.

I think I'd turn around and walk the other way.

I think I'd fling shit into the fan.

I've gotten to know myself and my own capabilities (or lack thereof) pretty well over the last several months. I've learned to handle a lot. A lot more than I thought I could. I also discovered some fragility that I didn't know existed.

I'm pretty sure that I couldn't handle this.

This would trip me up. This would shatter my sanity. Like a waiter that drops an overloaded tray of dishes, I'd lose the grip I hold on my own mind, and drop it. Watch it fall and shatter into a million pieces.

If I could see it coming first, before I was forced to try yet doomed to fail, I don't think I'd even try.

I think I'd turn around and walk the other way.

Watch out for flying shit.

I guess I do some of my best, or worst, thinking after work, sitting at Rich O's while I drink a beer and wait for my food.

Best because I finally get some time to myself, away from the paperwork and politicking at work. I can start thinking about things that are relevant to my life instead of those things that are only relevant to my job.

Worst because once I let my mind start to wander it jumps on a thought and develops inertia quickly, and getting it to veer away from an uncomfortable subject has become increasingly difficult. If not impossible.

Sometimes I actually long for the crazy days when my mind couldn't hold a single thought for more than a few minutes.

But those days are gone, and my mind will ruminate and ponder and obsess over whatever it wants. And there's not a damn thing I can do about it except let it go and wait for the thought to play itself out.

Case in point: Today at 5:30 I was thinking about justification and excuses. Now it's 10:26 and I'm still thinking about them.

I want justification. I crave it, need it, perhaps even deserve it.

But not that way.

People tell me stuff. Either directly or through hints, they tell me things that they think will dissipate this cloud that they perceive around me. They tell me things that they think will excuse and explain.

They think they're helping me, but what they're actually doing is scaring the shit out of me.

If I have to face one of my darkest fears to justify some of my deepest pains, then no thanks.

It's hard to think of something to write when I'm in a good mood.

My moods, like those of most semi-normal people, fluctuate several times a day. From good to bad. From bad to worse. From worse to great.

I know when I'm at my happiest, though. Fives days a week I have moments of ecstasy and relief that I know will go unchallenged until the next day. Until the next time. Sometimes I'll even do it several times in a row, so great is the joy that it brings. I just can't keep my hands off it.

I'm talking, of course, about my snooze button.

Those bonus minutes provide the best sleep of the night for me. They're the best because they are my choice. I take those minutes because I can, not because I have to, or because I need to. I go to bed at night because I have to get up in the morning. I sometimes take a nap after work because I'm just so tired that I need to sleep.

But those nine minutes, from 6:36 until 6:45, those are my choice, and I choose to take them. They're proof that, for a while at least, I'm in charge of my own life. Of my own destiny. At least for the next nine minutes.

Wouldn't it be nice to have a snooze button for life? So that when something so horrible, so unbearable happens, and you know you'll have to face it eventually, you can at least put it off for a little while?

It's hard to think of something to write when I'm in a good mood.

For my birthday card, Dina found this picture of me from the future.

Today I was digging through all of my picture boxes, looking for one in particular. I didn't find the one I was searching for but I did find some that prove that I used to be a pretty cute kid.

This was taken on my first Mother's Day. Despite what some may think, color film had been invented in 1965. I was just a black & white baby.

Here I was in 1970, apparently having just kacked at my hair with some scissors.

1971. My mom always took me to this evil barber and I always hated it. I think you can see why. Many years later, at my dad's funeral, that same barber had the nerve to try to extort money from me.

Ah, 1972. The Age of Groove may have been coming to an end, but I wasn't going to let it go without a fight. The really neato thing was that I had pants to match this vest. What made it even keener was that my cousins Jeff and Chris had matching outfits. This was the height of my coolness.

This was 1973. The neat thing about this shirt was that it matched everything. I wish I still had one like it.

1975. I kindof look like I might have been hungover here, but I'm pretty sure I wasn't.

The year 1976 was apparently a pretty rough one for me. I obviously used hedge clippers to cut my own hair, and needed a patch on my jacket to remind myself of my own name.

My 8th grade picture from 1979. This was the last decent picture ever taken of me. I remember that shirt. It was one of my all-time favorites. Also, check out the bling around my neck! It was an arrowhead necklace.

...like just now when I was sorting my laundry and glanced out the window to see a veritable blizzard.

I certainly wasn't expecting that. I'd figured that the time for snow was in the past.

Still, it's very pretty.

Whereas on Friday night the Rich O's crowd seemed fairly typical for a busy Friday night, last night's crowd was all Gravity Head.

Standing room only. If you were lucky enough to find a place to stand.

The place had been invaded by a bunch of Daytonese, and they filled every available nook and cranny. It was only through my charm and good looks that I was able to get a spot on the loveseat within an hour after I arrived.

Many of the Rich O's regulars were there as well, crammed into whatever spot they could find (and manage to hang on to) and most of us spent the night exchanging empathetic glances.

As for me, I was pretty much in misery. I don't like crowds. I especially don't like crowds of strangers. I should have left but I'd sort of promised NotGeorge that I'd give him a ride home so I was stuck.

To drink, I had a couple of the NABC Noble Smokers and a Delirium Tremens. The Tremens I had to get from a bottle because the Belgian wave of high gravity beers hasn't started yet. This weekend was mostly about the hops and the stouts. I did, however, manage to have small samples of the following:

• Avery "The Beast" Grand Cru
• Bell's Batch 6000
• Great Divide Oaked Yeti Imperial Stout
• Rogue Old Crustacean Barley Wine

Once the Daytonians had left - there were mumblings about skinny-dipping in the hotel pool - CoffeeDude and NotGeorge joined me in the living room area. By that time I'd switched to Diet Coke, but NotGeorge had just ordered a Bell's Batch 6000 so we sat around for a while. It was actually kind of nice to be able to have a conversation. It'd been way too loud earlier. Our conversation consisted mostly of wondering whether ExoticGirl tasted as good as she looked. Neither of us will ever know.

Fairly late in the evening DooRagGirl came in looking all rastafied, and I gave her my sister's e-mail address.

Left at about 12:30, dropped NotGeorge off at his house, and came home.