I'm in a weird mood.

Normally this type of mood would mean that I was about to start spouting drivel, but tonight I don't think it's going to happen.

See, I'm not allowed to write about feeling sad, which I'm not, because then people go, WTF happened this time? And I'm certainly not allowed to write about being happy, which I am, because then people go, OMG Dave is off his rocker again!

I could write about generic and/or hilarious things, like tonight's Indiana (preliminary) election results, but my heart's really not in it.

So I think I'll just go to bed. And maybe I'll dream something good that I won't be able to write about.

I just wanted to say that my cat Nugget is psychic.

He sensed that my mood was becoming unsteady, and he jumped into my lap and started licking my arm.

Now, if I can only get him to use his psychic powers to tell me the next winning lottery numbers...

See, this one time, there was this really bad thing that happened. I may have mentioned it from time to time. This bad thing happened, and I died.

It was not murder. It wasn't even manslaughter, though a good attorney might have been able to wrestle a plea bargain from a gullible defendant.

Doesn't matter though. The past has, as they say, passed.

Then, several months later, another really bad thing happened, and I died again. Except that time, the really bad thing didn't just happen. Nope, that time, it was done to me.

That time, I was murdered.

There's really no other way to say it. No acceptable excuse, though a few excuses have auditioned for me. And been rejected outright.

It was done, to me, on purpose. It was premeditated murder. Murder most foul, as I read somewhere in some book I think.

But again, it doesn't matter. The past has passed.

Anyway, what I realized this morning, before it turned into a good day, was that I knew what I was more afraid of than anything else.

It's not the first thing happening again. It's not even the second thing happening again.

It's both things, at the same time.

A part of me expects both these things to happen at any time. Any second now, I expect to check my pulse and discover that I'm dead again. And bullshit like Saturday night only fuels that fear.

I've said it a million times, though perhaps not so wordily; it takes the tiniest of efforts to ease my fears, but it also takes the slightest disregard to create them and feed them and raise them until they're big enough and strong enough to consume me.

Just a little effort. Just a smidgen of empathy, leading to a hint of courtesy. I don't think that's too much.

I know that this is all clear as mud. Can't be helped, I'm afraid.

I have about a million things I want to write about today. But I think I'm just going to start with the one that's a happy thing.

I had a good day today.

First, it was beautiful outside. A little chilly, but that only matters when I'm outside, and I didn't go outside until it had warmed up to a semi-respectable 60 degrees.

Anyway, my day started, predictably enough, checking email and MySpace and Facebook, looking for some clue as to what the fuck happened Saturday night. Well I found no clues, and I started to get a little sad. But then, then I got the nicest distraction ever when HatGirl called me.

HatGirl!

Yay!

I talked to HatGirl for what seemed like a million years of bliss and, by the time our conversation was over, I was no longer in any danger of being sad. At least not for today.

Guess what I did next!

Guess!

Damn, you guys suck at guessing. Fine I'll just tell you. You'd better sit down.

I replaced the window switch in my Monte Carlo!

Yay!

This is the first time in 23,000 years that the windows in my Monte Carlo have actually been controllable from the driver's door. And, it also the first time in 22,000 years that the door panel has been on said door.

Yay!

Oh yeah, after I went to the parts store to buy a switch, but before I went back home, I went to Polly's Freeze for lunch. All of the food was yummy as always. It kinda sucked that some asshole had my favorite table, though. I guess they haven't gotten around to chiseling Reserved for Dave on the table's concrete surface yet.

After I'd returned home, and replaced the window switch (yay!) I realized a couple of things. Thing the first was that it was a really nice day, weather-wise. Thing the second was that I didn't want to go back into my house on such a nice day.

So, I didn't.

I sat in my garage for several hours, totally kicked-back on my el-cheapo white plastic furniture, and I listened to the radio and I drank a couple of yummy beers and I glared at my phone and I thought about someone something wonderful and I smiled and I laughed.

It was a perfect day.

Then the Sun went down, and the temperature dropped 50,000 degrees, and I came back into my stupid house and watched stupid TV.

Today, I might have killed a horse. Or at least helped to kill the poor thing.

I went to my friend Eric's Derby party. I hadn't been planning to make any bets beyond the pseudo-bet of paying $5 and drawing a horse out of an envelope. I got Anak Kara or something like that. I think it's still running.

But then LaptopGirl and I made an arrangement. I would bet her favorite horses and then split any winnings with her.

This betting frenzy, apparently, spurred BadPickleGirl's interest, and so she ended up placing her own bet.

She bet the filly. The only filly in the thing. The filly that came in second. The filly that, immediately after the race, broke both its front ankles, collapsed on the track, and was euthanized.

That filly.

Anyway, while I mostly rooted for LaptopGirl's (and therefore my) horses, I also found myself silently rooting for BadPickleGirl's horse.

Maybe, I think, if I hadn't rooted for the filly, maybe it wouldn't have run so hard. And then, maybe, it wouldn't have broken its ankles and had to be put down.

I'm not saying its all my fault. That would be silly. But I bet it's at least partly my fault.

Also, there seems to be a pattern lately of horses breaking their legs while running. Maybe it's a conspiracy. Somebody should look into this.

I'd look into it myself, but I'm too busy right now trying to figure out why I just wasted 120 minutes of my life.

I still need to put in a Thursday and Friday beer report. I haven't forgotten.

But now I've got to start getting ready to go to my friend Eric's derby party. I may be accompanied, I may not be accompanied. I may have a second party to go to later, and I may not.

I have a feeling that, by the end of the day, I'll know what it feels like to juggle cats while having a nervous breakdown.

My brain is strange. I don't think that statement would surprise too many people who know me.

For example, I spent about half the day today wondering if I was thought to be gay. Then, I spent a good chunk of tonight wondering if I was thought to be a dick.

It's the latter thing that I want to write about now. The former thing was just silly. A fun little imaginary scenario that drove me nuts, but still silly.

The Dave is a dick thing is a little more serious to me. Because it might have actually happened. Be happening. Whatever.

See, one thing that my strange brain cannot do is read minds. Another thing is that it cannot reliably decipher vague messages. The lack of these abilities may be normal.

As if I'd know what normal is.

Anyway, the other night I got this email. Unfortunately I can't say, in this venue, what the email said. All I can say is that it was a little vague as to its meaning.

I immediately thought of, and assumed that the worst possible meaning was the correct meaning, and I responded appropriately. Or what I thought was appropriately.

That's how my brain works.

But then, earlier today, I thought of a second possible meaning. And then, tonight, I thought of a third possible meaning. All are equally possible, given the vague wording of the email, but taken in the context that is my life, there's about a 99.99% chance that I was correct with my initial assumption.

But what if I was wrong?

Well, if I was wrong, then I'm a dick for not responding in an appropriate manner.

It's only a .01% chance that I was wrong. But it's enough, I think, to keep me from getting any sleep tonight.

Good thing I don't have to work tomorrow.

Okay, I'm back now. Heartfelt thanks go out to the zero people who noticed that I was gone. I get tears in my eyes when I think about all zero of you.

Anyway, I was in Covington, KY, which is across the river from Cincinnati and next to Newport. It was for a work thing, a series of meetings that lasted from 8:30 until 5:30 Wednesday. I drove up Tuesday after noon and spent the night.

After I'd checked into the stupid Marriot, I set out on foot in search of food and beverage. I walked from my hotel, at the river's shore, about 18,000 blocks South. All I found were pawn shops and cash advance places. So, not the best part of town, I figured. Next, I shifted a couple of blocks to my left, turned around, and trekked back towards the river. Still, pawn shops and cash advance places, but now with some strip joints thrown in for good measure.

I got back to the stupid Marriot, intending to get in my truck and drive to Newport. I know they have beer there. But, at the hotel, I got to talking to the doorman, and he told me where the touristy section of Covington was.

Remember, back two paragraphs ago, I said that I'd shifted to my left. Well it turns out that I should have shifted to my right. Because to the right was where all of the bars were.

The guy told me it was a two-minute walk. It was more like a zillion years, but I finally made it there. By the time I arrived in the touristy area, I was dying for Newcastle. So I went into the first likely-looking place, called the Cock & Bull.

I'd been hoping to find a Guinness, maybe a Newcastle. I most certainly hadn't dared to hope that I'd find Delirium Tremens, or Unibroue Maudite. Or a bottled beer selection that even MrPopular might envy. It was a very nice place, and I stayed there for hours.

Because I had fish and chips for my late lunch, I was bound by both honor and propriety to have a Newcastle (9367). The glasses were only 16 ounces, but they were unchilled. I was very happy. Even though I thought the fish kinda sucked.

My next beer was a Delirium Tremens (1225), and I spent some time talking to this one dork who wanted Beck's and would settle for nothing else.

Next, I tried something new to me.

Moerlein O.T.R.

(bottle) Clear dark orange. Kind of a weird color. No head to speak of. An aroma of malts and hops that was pretty enticing. Medium mouthfeel. The flavor was extremely good. The hops seemed to be a mixture of the piney kind (which I hate) and the flowery kind (which I love) and there was also a strong malty component to the flavor. Definitely very interesting and balanced and drinkable. I'd love to try this on tap someday. Yummy.

Just one example of my stupidity: I was talking for a couple of hours to this one cute girl about my reason for being there and the upcoming derby and beer and whatever else. It was a good conversation, I will call her EyesGirl, because she had two of them. Anyway, at one point she suggested that we go to some of the other bars in the area. Because I'd told her that I was only in town for one night, she said she wanted to show me a good time.

And not in a hooker way, I don't think. In a I'm a nice girl but I'll be naughty with you way.

So, naturally, I told her that I was seeing somebody. Even though I'm clearly not seeing anyone.

EyesGirl left shortly afterwards. Probably went home to masturbate, the poor thing.

I ended up convincing my boss, in town for the same work thing, to come up to the Cock & Bull and have dinner. I had another Delirium Tremens (1235) and then I talked my boss into giving me a ride back to the stupid Marriot.

Then today I had meetings then I drove home.

I need to see if Rich O's can get the O.T.R. there. I think people would like it, but mostly I'd just like to have it again without having to drive to Covington. It's kind of a cross between Rogue Dead Guy and Three Floyd's Gumballhead.

I've always been pretty good at remembering dates. But, apparently, only if the significance of said date is realized right away.

There's this one date that I really wish I knew. But I don't

I can rattle off every other relevant date without batting an eye. But the most important date? The first relevant date?

At that, I can only guess.

See, I used to think that this all grew as time passed. That there was a reason for it. That I wasn't crazy. This was yet another series of lies that I told myself. So that I'd think that I was more normal than I really was.

But it didn't grow. Instead, my denial and my disbelief - they shrank. They shrank until there came a day when I had to believe, because there was nothing left to do. Occam's Razor definitely applied.

I know that fucking date, when I finally saw the truth. When everything changed inside while the outside remained exactly the same as it had always been. I remember that date. Like it was important or something.

That date was nothing. I'd finally opened my eyes. Whoop-dee fucking doo.

The important date, the one I should know, so that I can celebrate or mourn as dictated by whatever my current mood and circumstances happen to be, all I can do is guess at that date.

I think I'm going to guess September 24th, 2003. That's at least close. It's what you'd call an educated guess.

I've been lying to myself, I'm afraid. I've been lying to myself because I felt, deep down, that there was no way I could deal with the cold hard truth.

Until now, perhaps. As that cold hard truth presses onto my chest and pins me to the ground, I remember that I have surprised myself before. With my resilience. With my strength. Even with my resolve, misplaced though it may be.

The truth.

I constantly seek answers to unasked questions, expired years ago. The answers don't matter anymore. I'm no archaeologist, qualified to poke and dig through the ruins of my own past, hoping to uncover some scrap of knowledge that just might help me in the future. Or the present.

The truth.

I yank and strain at doors, long rusted shut. I tell myself that I have another chance, but for what?

I don't know. Something.

Anything?

But there are no second chances. There are only similarities. So that I can say to myself, If only I can do that one tiny thing differently, everything will be better, this time. Everything will be great, this time. If only I can find out what that one tiny thing is.

The truth.

I have tried to resurrect the dead.

And I've failed. So now I need to focus on the living.

The truth sucks sometimes.