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I'm feeling generous. Over at the journalspace incarnation of this blog, I'm offering a year of pro-access to whoever gets this right.

I think today was kinda boring. It must have been because I can't remember any of it.

Hold on a second while I scour my brain...

Okay, found some things.

First, my guilt-induced insomnia really played havoc with me Sunday night and into Monday morning. I bet I got three whopping hours of sleep. So that sucked.

Then some crap exciting and challenging activities I was doing for work finally finished, so I was able to stop checking my computer every 10 minutes. So that was cool.

All day long I was starving, yet totally unmotivated to get dressed and leave my house. I just saw no point in it. I see no point in much these days. At about 5:00, however, I noticed that I was almost out of Diet Coke, so I showered, grudgingly put on some clothes, and exited the premises. Because there's no way I'd be able to get up in the morning without my caffeine.

I drove my Monte Carlo (the day's predicted tornado stampede never materialized) to Red Lobster for dinner. My phone rang when I was on the way. It was StupidGirl! Yay! She's so nice. She wanted to wish me a happy Memorial Day because I'm a veteran. Of course, I'm not a dead veteran, but it was the thought that counted.

At Red Lobster, I had my usual yummy food. So that was cool. And I texted OddlyFamiliarGirl in case she was working, but I guess she wasn't.

Then I went to Hooters and had a couple glasses of Newcastle (9618). I traded a few million emails with RockGirl. Then I came home.

I've been watching a bunch of tivoed episodes of The Alaska Experiment.

Now I want to move back to Alaska. I liked it there, except for it being a nonstop statewide sausage festival. It was pretty, except for all the sausages.

Okay, so after my last entry, I remembered that I was bored, so I left my house.

I went to Polly's Freeze for dinner. Some dipshits had my table, but I got over it.

When I was waiting for my food, there was this old woman standing nearby, also waiting for her food. She kinda looked like the mother of a childhood friend of mine, except much older.

"Excuse me Ma'am, are you Brian's great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, by any chance?" I asked.

"I'm his mother," she conceded.

So I told her who I was, and that it was good to see her. I'm pretty sure that she even remembered me. Weird how she's managed to age a quarter-century since I last saw her, a quarter-century ago. I'm sure it's my fault somehow.

But seriously, it was cool to see her. I always worry about people dying. I'm glad she didn't.

Interestingly enough, her son Brian was the model for one of my youngest sister's imaginary childhood friends. For about six months after this one day when Brian came down to our house to play, my sister Neisha was always, "Brian this," and "Brian that." it was quite cute, actually. Her other imaginary friend was named Rakis and I always figured that she'd heard the word rapist on TV or something.

After I left Polly's, I went down to Sluttopia for a Newcastle (9578). I might have stayed for another one but this one drunk kept mumbling to me about the race that was on TV. He kept saying, "Aaarg yuuurg blarr farrrrrrrr uttttt," which I think translates as, "Look at them make all those fucking left turns."

I soon realized that I was just as bored at Sluttopia as I'd be at my house. I also realized that there weren't any mumbling drunk NASCAR fans at my house. So I came home.

My fun day started at about 7:00 in the morning, when I woke up and remembered that everything is my fault. After that, I couldn't get back to sleep, because of all the guilt, so I just stayed up and shot some pool for a while.

Then, I went to NotHideousGirl's house to help move some of her shit into storage. We'd agreed to meet at 1:00, and NotHideousGirl was considerate enough to call me at 12:59, when I was about 30 seconds from her house, to tell me that the time would be 3:00 instead of 1:00.

I ended up waiting on her porch for an hour or so, listening to the neighbors having a full blown white-trash throw-down. I suspected that one of them was going to murder the other, then murder me for being a witness. So I shot off a couple of quick emails, to RockGirl and LaptopGirl. You know, to say a proper goodbye and stuff.

But I guess the neighbors must have ended up killing each other, as the racket suddenly stopped after about an hour, and I'm still alive, so whew! My lucky day.

Then we loaded my truck up and took NotHideousGirl's stuff to storage, five or six times. It's not quite as bad as it sounds, though, because my truck has the carrying capacity of a gnat's rectum. Plus, MusicalYuppieDude was there to help, and TremensGirl and UPSDude showed up as well. The whole thing only took a couple of hours.

Now I'm back home trying to decide what to do with the rest of my Sunday. It'll be pretty hard to top what's already happened, so I may just stay home. Quit while I'm ahead and all that.

I think that, to carry a metaphor way too far, I think that the arches of my feet are simply getting too sore to bear.

All this fucking tiptoeing around. Like I'm all sneaky and shit.

New flash: I'm not sneaky. Everyone sees me. Everyone knows what I'm doing. Everyone is laughing at my fumbling attempts to pretend that things are normal. That I'm normal.

I'm just getting sick and tired of it. My tiptoeing is not fooling anyone, and so it serves no purpose except to spotlight a failed attempt at deception.

I hate doing this, I did it, for a long time, because I thought it was necessary. The right thing to do. And maybe it was the right thing to do, for a while. But that time has passed.

A lie of omission is still a lie.

---

Also, because I don't want to forget this, and also because I thought it was funny, I had myself a gay cheeseburger tonight.

What's that you say? You didn't know there was such a thing as a gay cheesburger?

Well, I didn't know it either, but I was wrong. As were you.

So I went to Wendy's and, as usual, I ordered the #2 meal plain with a Diet Coke. Then I stepped aside to wait for my order to be prepared.

I guess the burger guy was a trainee or something, because the manager chick had to explain to him what "plain" meant. She said that it should have just cheese on it. He didn't understand, so she said it more clearly. "A plain cheeseburger should have meat, cheese, bread, and nothing else on it," she said.

"Well that's gay," the burger guy replied.

For the record, my gay cheeseburger was very good.

It was weird, though. I had the strangest urge to go dancing after I'd eaten it.

Okay, so I'm a week behind on beer reports. I don't care, and so I certainly can't expect anyone else to care. Not that anyone ever did anyway.

I'm doing it again, I see. Writing this for other people instead of for myself. I hate it when I do this. It means that I stop writing about the mundane boring bullshit that I use for a life, and I either don't write anything or I write something else that gets me into trouble.

---

So the other day I was thinking about a couple of tough things that I keep having to do. The first thing is acting somewhat like a normal person, sometimes. The second thing is dealing with pain.

I can do either of those things.

I can act so much like a normal person, sometimes, that sometimes I even start to fool myself into thinking that maybe it's not an act. And I've already gone through, and recovered from, so much pain in my life that I know that I can handle anything.

But what I can't do, what I can't do is act normal and deal with pain at the same time.

This is my current problem.

I was slapped in the face, then punched in the gut, then kicked in the nuts, all in the span of about an hour. All three things hurt me deeply, both because they happened and because of from whom the blows came. Doesn't matter that these things might have been were probably unintentional. Sometimes apathy is worse than cruelty.

I can deal with it, though. It's just pain, after all. Pain and I, we're old friends now.

But don't expect me to act normal while I deal with it.

Had this dream last night. It was all quite realistic and dramatic.

It was a typical Summer day. Partly cloudy and warm. Our little-league baseball teams neared the end of our game. The score was 5 to 7, and my team was losing. It was the bottom of the last inning. There were two outs and a runner on first.

It was my turn to bat.

I wasn't the best hitter on my team, but I was certainly no slouch. Not known for my power, though I could certainly deliver it on occasion, I was more of a hitter than a slugger. I was third in the batting order.

I selected a fairly light bat, so that I might swing it quickly. Power wasn't what I was looking for. Not this time. This time I wanted bat-control. This time all I wanted to do was get on base, so Tony would get another chance to bat. And hit another home run. It would be his third of the day. If I could give him the opportunity.

I settled into the batter's box, far from the plate as always. I didn't like being pushed away from the plate, and I knew I could reach anything outside. I wasn't worried. This pitcher was a joke. I was 3 for 3 against him already. The first pitch was an overhead lob and, just as it was thrown, the Sun emerged from behind a cloud. The pitch was a called strike. I had to take the umpire's word for it, because I was temporarily blinded.

The second pitch was an obvious ball, in the dirt. I watched it bounce into the catcher's mitt, and I laughed. I was being kind of a dick, I suppose.

The third pitch was side-armed, low and inside, but certainly hittable. I saw the ball clearly. The ball was going bye-bye.

Chris, my teammate on first, took off as the pitch was thrown.

As it turned out, I only caught the top half of the ball. A slow grounder to third would really test my speed.

Chris was already at second when the third baseman got to the ball.

I barely beat the ball to first base, but it didn't matter, because the throw missed the first baseman and bounced to the pitcher covering behind him.

Oops.

Chris didn't slow down as he rounded second.

I took a few steps away from first base and taunted the pitcher as he quickly retrieved the ball. Yes, I was definitely being a dick.

He watched me, trying to gauge if he could tag me out or not. He completely forgot about my teammate until Chris scored, on a weak single, all the way from first.

Now it was 6 to 7. Still bottom of the ninth, still two outs, but now it was my lovely self on first.

I called timeout, and told Coach about being blinded by the sun on my first pitch. I said I was going to steal second, and count on the catcher being just as blinded as I'd been. Coach agreed. I needed to get into scoring position.

I took a long lead, and the pitcher glared me back to the base. I took an even longer lead, and the pitcher whipped around and threw the ball to...

the right-fielder, apparently.

I think he meant to throw it to the first baseman. It was, after all, where the first basemen would normally stand. But not when there's a runner on first who's threatening to steal second.

So the ball went into right field and, I could tell, would make it all the way to the fence before anyone got to it.

I took off, and made it all the way to third before the ball came back to the infield

It was still 6 to 7. It was still bottom of the ninth, and still two outs. But now I was on third.

I was very excited. I let out a loud woo-hoo and my team echoed that sentiment from their bench. The dick trifecta was complete.

The opposing team made a pitching change.

It was a girl!

She had a huge entourage with her. Family members, friends, members of the press. They filled the stands and lined up along both baselines. Many of them stood directly on the third baseline, completely blocking my view of the plate.

In fact, on the first pitch to Tony, I could only stand there and wonder if it had been a ball or a strike. I'd certainly heard no crack of the bat.

I called timeout again, and went and asked the home-plate umpire if he could ask the people on the baseline to move, because I could neither see the plate nor run to it, should the opportunity arise.

The umpire said, "No, you'll be fine. Play ball."

I was incredulous. I pleaded for him to move the people from the baseline, to at least give me and my team a chance.

The umpire said, "No, you'll be fine, those people can stay where they are. They just want to see their girl pitch."

So I did what any reasonable person would do. I borrowed the bat from Tony and I bashed the umpire's head into a bloody pulp.

What's one more than a trifecta, a superfecta?

Stepping over the umpire's body, and still carrying the bloodied bat, I went to the first base umpire. I asked him if he could make the people on the baselines move. He took at glance at the carnage at home plate, nodded meekly, and started shooing people away from the baselines.

Who says violence never solved anything?

I pitched the bat back to Tony, and started walking back toward third base. I was feeling pretty satisfied with myself. I'd driven in a run, and I'd turned a weak single into a triple. I'd given Tony another chance to bat. I'd given my team a chance to tie the game, or maybe even win it.

As I walked by the pitcher's mound, I nodded and smiled at the girl pitcher standing there. She was pretty cute. Probably a carpet-muncher, though.

Damn.

I think I must have said that word to myself a million times today. I'll probably say it a million more times tomorrow, and again the next day, and again the next day.

Damn.

I need a new thesaurus, I think.

So I just went back and reread a bunch of my old drivel. To see how I dealt with situations like this in the past. I knew what I was expecting to find. Anger. Sadness. Disbelief. More sadness.

I didn't even remember writing the bullshit that I found, but the vast majority of what I found consisted of bullshit piled atop more bullshit.

I was such a fucking liar, back then. I lied to myself every time I wrote that bullshit. Which was a fucking lot, as I just discovered.

And now I wish that I was still a liar. A good one, a convincing one.

So that I might tell myself the bullshit again, and believe it, and maybe even actually get some sleep.

Damn.

One day last week I was emailing HatGirl back and forth about wine and such. I'm buying the wine for her wedding reception. Because I'm a nice guy, at least when people are deserving of my niceness, which is rare these days, but HatGirl is special.

Anyway, HatGirl said something or other about how to thank me for the wine. My thought was, It's her flipping wedding. I get to see her at her absolute happiest. That's thanks enough for a lifetime.

So I told her as much. But I also told her that, "Actually, you can thank me by letting me dance with the bride at the reception."

Pretty much the greatest idea in history, right?

That's what I thought.

In fact, there are only two things wrong with the idea.

My two left feet.

I can't dance. Not at all, and certainly not the type of dancing I expect to see at wedding receptions.

I guess I picture LuckyFucker and HatGirl dancing for a bit, then probably HatGirl's dad cuts in, then maybe I cut in. And it's that semi-formal kind of dancing that you see in the movies. My right hand on HatGirl's waist, my left hand in her right hand. And we do something with our feet, though I haven't a clue as to what that might me. Move them, maybe? Take some steps, perhaps? And I think there's this thing called "rhythm" that we're supposed to pay attention to.

So I've been asking around. Surely I must know some girl who (a) can dance and (b) is willing to teach me.

Nope.

As of this writing, zero girls will admit to knowing how to dance this kind of dance. Only FirstGirl would admit to any dancing talent at all, and she seemed much more interested in teaching me to Tango or Cha-Cha.

I guess I've still got some time. Maybe I can take some professional lessons. Or find me some gay guy to teach me. I think they're all born with the ability or something.

I guess the only thing I know for sure is that nobody should expect to see me cutting any rugs or getting jiggy with anything. I'm pretty sure those things are beyond my abilities, and I know for an absolute fact that I wouldn't be doing that kind of dancing anyway. There's not that much alcohol on Earth. You may as well expect me to sing karaoke.

Trying to figure out exactly what I'm adding to this little formula that's got us so stumped. Or even approximately what I'm adding. Or subtracting. All I really know for sure is that the balance is tilted heavily in my favor.

My wins, they're all so fucking huge. I've become a spoiled brat. And sometimes I forget just how fantastic things are. And sometimes I throw a tantrum when things don't go my way. I threw a tantrum all day today. It's a wonder I didn't give myself a heart attack.

But, I'm better now.

It doesn't take much. Just a little tug on the line, as if to make sure I'm still here. Still hooked.

That curiosity, it means something. I think it might mean that I matter, just a little.

Though I can't for the life of me imagine why. Or for what.

I can't figure out what I'm good for, is I guess what I'm trying to say.

The whole thing is so lopsided, so unfair. I shouldn't be the one who gets to be happy. At least I shouldn't be the only one.

---

I had a dream today.

I accidentally wiped a smile off a beautiful face, and the world wept. I dedicated my life to bringing that smile back, but it wasn't meant to be. For I was the destroyer of beauty, and its restoration was beyond my abilities. Years later, I looked at the gray place that the world had become, that I had created with one selfish act, and I dreaded death. For that smile survived only in my memory, and when I died, it would be lost forever.

---

Crap, it's 1:30 already. I suppose I should go stare at my ceiling for a while.