As anyone who's read me for any length of time knows, I write more goodly when I'm in a bad mood.

Now, it's been a while since I've written anything goodly. Over a year, I think. I say, I think, because to actually go back and check would be hard and stuff.

This past January sucked - maybe I wrote goodly in January.

Anywhozit.

Crap, what was I going to write about?

Oh, yeah. My previous entry.

I wonder who knows what the fuck that's all about. I've written the same kind of entry three times now. They have all meant the same thing.

I'm not ashamed.

This time, I went almost 1,200 days, but then I cried. Like a fucking baby. Saturday afternoon to be precise, a little before 5:00 PM. I had a good fucking reason, and anyone who disagrees can feel free to blow me. And maybe trade lives with me for a while. To see if he/she can stand it as well as I have.

One thousand one hundred and ninety-six days, seventeen hours, eleven minutes and four seconds...

One thousand one hundred and ninety-six days, seventeen hours, eleven minutes and five seconds...

One thousand one hundred and ninety-six days, seventeen hours, eleven minutes and six seconds...

...

...

...

Damn.

One second...

Two seconds...

...

...

...

Damn.

The thing is, I don't. Not any more. Not for a long time now.

My reasons were, and are, myriad.

Mostly, I just knew that it was wrong. I knew it was a lie. I knew it was a betrayal. I knew it was a waste of time.

So, I stopped. A long time ago.

It was a long time ago. Probably right after that comet smashed into the Earth, and while the remaining dinosaurs were wondering, with their walnut-sized brains, What the fuck was that noise? And what happened to the Sun? And why is it so cold?

Back then, I had kids. They were my ex-wife's kids, to be specific, but I counted them as mine. Fuck, my daughter I got to see being born, so blow me if you don't think I had the right to count myself as a parent.

Anyway, my kids, and all kids I guess, they had this thing they'd do. This warning of sorts. Whenever they'd be hurt or upset, they'd start to scream. But it was almost never immediate. Nope, they'd inhale first. And, the longer they'd inhale, the more piercing the inevitable scream would be.

A couple of seconds? A normal scream.

A minute? A terrible, horrible scream.

My daughter would, I shit you not, inhale for an hour and a half sometimes. And then she'd let loose. And everything good in the world would wither and die, after briefly wishing it had never been born in the first place.

I think I started inhaling a few weeks ago.

I can feel this scream building within me.

I wouldn't want to be around me when I finally let loose.

I, unfortunately, have no choice. I have to be present. But everyone else? Everyone else should stay the fuck away.

It's coming.

You know the ironic thing about silence?

It's fucking deafening.

And darkness?

Blinding.

Not that I know anything, but I do think some stuff, sometimes. And every now and then it's useful, to think stuff.

Usually not, but sometimes.

Like maybe every full Moon, like tonight.

Maybe the trick is to look at things objectively. To step outside, then turn around and take a good look at myself and my life.

Objectively, I'm the luckiest man on Earth. I absolutely do not deserve what I have.

So why, I wonder, why do I constantly find myself struggling to stay afloat in this damn sea of sadness that surrounds me?

I don't like that metaphor. It sounded better in my head. Please disregard it.

Anyway.

I've always been, in my deepest core, a pessimist. The worst is what's expected, what's expected is the worst. That's just the way I roll. It's safer that way, I've always thought, when I bothered to think about it at all. Usually it's just been something that is, like my height or my hair color.

Lately, though, I've found myself having hope of all things. For what, exactly, I don't know. It varies. It's always something good, though.

Happiness or some mythical shit like that.

Objectively, I'm the luckiest man on Earth.

Subjectively, I want to crawl into a hole and die.

So, there's a bit of a conflict there. I'm dealing with it, as well as I can.

Mostly by drinking beer, though denial is another important tool. As is this little trick I like to call selective memory.

You know a good way to tell when I'm in a weird mood?

When I start writing a bunch of single-sentence paragraphs.

That information does me no good.

What would do me some good would be hearing about all of the other things.

Like, tell me about how she jerked her head up every time the door darkened.

Or tell me about how her heart skipped a beat every time she heard a new voice, one that might belong to me.

Or describe how she glared at her phone, and wished it would do something besides just sit there being lame.

That's the kind of information that would do me some good.

And if none of that stuff actually happened?

Well, then lie to me. For sometimes the truth isn't enough.

Today I picked up my new painting, by MisunderstoodGirl.

Because I'm all cultured and shit.

I get nervous, sometimes. Like right now. And last week. And last month. And for the last year or so.

I really and truly thought that everything was out in the open. I really and truly thought that the truth was the one thing I didn't need to worry about.

Well, apparently, I was wrong.

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I don't know if I'm ever going to get around to finishing my Atlanta entries. I must have 2,000 words worth of notes, but I have zero motivation to edit those notes into anything reasonable. I drank beer. I lamented the severe shortage of LaptopGirls and HatGirls in Atlanta. There was never a drop of hot water in my hotel room. I was pretty much miserable the entire time.

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Then, MixedSignalGirl got married in Jeffersonville, while I sat in the Atlanta airport. I should have been there for her happy day. I should have been there for her. I should have been there for myself. But, I wasn't there. And it was only a coincidence that allowed me to use "but I'm in Atlanta" as an excuse.

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I really thought I'd have more crap to write tonight. Maybe later.

I think that I'm getting sick of being a grouch. I think that I want to be in a good mood again.

So, I think that's what I'll do.

Yep, that's definitely what I'll do.