There's this thing that I'm not supposed to write about.

Not that one thing about which I keep writing, even though I'm not supposed to. A completely different thing. One which I've been able to more or less successfully steer clear of for years, except for a couple of minor, trivial, and harmless entries.

I fear all that may change, and that it may change soon.

I really hope it doesn't come to that. I'm really too old for that kind of shit.

This entry, such as it is, brought to you by:

Bluegrass Russian Imperial Porter

(bottle) Pours black, with a minimal tan head that faded quickly. Light aroma of roasted malts and chocolate. Flavor was pretty much the same - roasted malt and chocolate. The finish was a little drying, but otherwise the 11% ABV is hidden very well. A very good beer.

WeirdGirl and I slept until after 10:00. We probably would have slept even later, except my sister called with some disconcerting news. Everything, in the end, so to speak, seems to have turned out well. So that's cool, but it did make for several hours of at least slight trepidation.

After WeirdGirl left, I settled into what's become my normal Sunday routine. Doing laundry. Shooting pool. Watching movies. Glaring at my phone.

But that last thing, I think I did more out of habit than out of any real sense of anticipation. I certainly never expected it to make it's little woo-hoo noise. And, of course, it never did. I was oddly okay with its silence, though. Just like I was oddly okay with the silence than ran through my head all day today.

The silence from my phone was familiar. The silence in my head? Not so much, but still, okay.

See, I don't know what happened, but I have to assume that there must have been a good reason for it. I stated my case, for whatever that might be worth. Nothing changed. So I jumped into my time machine. I was right, it's not so bad.

Anyway, some things are funny to me. They have to be funny, lest they be tragic. And I've got enough tragedy, thank you very much.

The thought that a pretty face, or a sexy body, or a friendly personality - the thought that any or all of these things might be enough for me - that thought borders on hilarious.

There's always something missing, it seems. That thing which is intangible and all-important. That's the thing for which the need permeates me. I've found something to fill that need once, twice, maybe three times. I may never find it again. That would be sad, I think.

Desire is more important than satisfaction. Because you can never really have the latter without the former. If you try, it inevitably feels hollow and empty. It feels like a lie, and for good reason.

WeirdGirl and I talked about this stuff for a while, our breathing still synchronized, in the late hours before sleep took us. We've discussed it before, and it's starting to sink in, the things that I say. She's finally starting to understand me, and her understanding will probably signal the end of this. Whatever this is.

Some of the time, a lot of the time, I imagine that people will read my drivel and figure that I've been drinking. A lot. And on those occasions, I imagine that people will blame alcohol for my drivel.

Perfectly understandable. Usually wrong, but understandable.

Tonight, less than an hour ago, I wrote some drivel. I have been drinking tonight, but I haven't drank very much.

Nope, tonight was a tame night, alcohol-wise.

Now, I'm sitting here waiting for my doorbell to ring. After it rings, I will be able to forget the last several hours, and I will live in the present for a while. Until we awaken in the morning, physically refreshed and emotionally numbed. After some caffeine and nicotine, reality will set back in for both of us.

It will be nice, while it lasts. But, in so many ways, too many ways, it will be a lie.

That's pretty good timing. She's here, and just when I was about to spout some more drivel.

There's a pattern to it, I think. Or at least a series of relationships; one stacked onto another. Towering skyward, but unsteady.

The base is quite stable, thank you very much.

---

Last night, I dreamed of a conversation in which I was asked a question. I've dreamed about this conversation before, and the last time, I gave a decent yet indecent answer for that particular dream moment.

But that time, in that dream, it was someone else asking the question. This time, in this dream, there was a new person asking with both fear and hope in her voice, "What is it you want with me?"

Last night, I awoke thinking that the question itself, coming from that particular person, was flawed. By merely asking the question, she answered it. I wanted what I had at that moment. Which, at that moment, was her presence, and her acknowledgement, and her conversation. I wanted her to ask me that question, just as I'd wanted her to pause a few seconds earlier. Just as I'd wanted her to smile a few minutes before that, and breathe throughout the time we were spending together.

Awake now for several hours, I'm struggling a bit, trying translate these muddled thoughts into words so that I will understand them when I read them later.

---

Whatever it is, as long it's more than nothing. During those wonderful times, when it's more than nothing, I'm perfectly happy. And I'm too busy being perfectly happy to think of anything more. The base is stable.

It's only during those other times, when there's nothing, it's only during those times that my wants start to stack on top of each other. Presence, below acknowledgment, below conversation, always upward. Friendship, below acceptance, below lust, below passion, below love.

The base is stable, but the tower itself teeters. There's an almost constant rain of debris falling from the top. And then, when nothing is finally replaced with something, the entire thing comes crashing down.

But not the base. The base is stable.

What is it that I want?

Sometimes I want exactly what I have, as long as it's not nothing.

It's only when I have nothing that I find myself wanting everything.

The place was pretty freaking packed. I'd been expecting a big crowd. Friday nights are always crowded, plus they were having another art show out in the special people section. The entire place was packed, often standing-room-only, for most of the night.

But that was okay. MusicalYuppieDude gave me a seat on the sofa when I first arrived, so I didn't have to stand. Also at least half of the non-regulars in the crowd were girls in various stages of hotness. Most of them were hippies, but hot hippies. There also seemed to be a very unlikely proportion of blonde girls.

When I first arrived, I waited in vain for a bartender to make his way to me. I ended up going out to look at the art for a while. As in most art shows, there was some good stuff and some bad stuff. It's all subjective. I didn't see any paintings by either MisunderstoodGirl or NotHideousGirl, so that was a little disappointing.

They also had a small beer stand set up at the art show entrance. On the way back to Rich O's proper, I glanced at the labels on the taps.

Cone Smoker!

Yay!

I guess they'd saved some just for the art show.

So, guess what beer I had.

Guess!

Cone Smoker!

Yay!

It was only a 12-oz pour, into a plastic cup, and it took about 15 minutes to pour it, but it was still yummy (3157).

When I got back to Rich O's proper, I had a brief conversation with LaptopGirl, who I hadn't seen before but who was sitting at the kiddie table with some guy I don't like. The conversation was indeed brief. It consisted of her saying, "Hi," followed by me saying, "Hi."

Oh, how the mighty have, once again, fallen.

My next beer, because I didn't want to have to wait so long for another Cone Smoker, was an NABC Flat Tyre (153). In fact, because of some ordering confusion, I was presented with two pints of Flat Tyre at the same time. So that's all I had for the rest of the night (173).

The group in the living room talked about various stuff for a while, and at one point we found ourselves playing euchre. Actually, we all spent the night trying to teach euchre to this one dude. He didn't have a nickname before, and I'm going to pick HairDude for no particular reason. Also playing/teaching was SmooshDude, and PlantDude.

It was a fun night. At one point PlantDude's fiancé, NiceGirl, took his spot in the game, and NiceGirl and I proceeded to win about 7,999,999 of the next 8,000,000 possible points. NiceGirl and I would apparently dominate the Professional Euchre Tour, if such a thing existed.

It was a fun night.

I would say that, if you think you know me at all - even if it's only from what you've read in this journal - then you would be fully justified in being proud of me right now.

Me? I'm not quite so sure. But then, I know more about the situation than you do. I alone, I think, really know what's at stake.

After tonight, I'm certainly not disgusted with myself, as has so often been the case lately. I did a tiny thing, which I felt needed to be done, and so I got to come home with a slight feeling of accomplishment. Instead of that feeling of cowardice to which I'd become so accustomed.

I await any ramifications with a little bit of fear, and a little bit of anticipation. Odds are, there will be no discernable ramifications at all. But I'm the only one who suspects that it was all a waste of time and effort. Others silently applauded me tonight, after only a little bit of encouragement from me.

I'm not sure if I did something good, and I'm not sure if I did something bad. What I'm sure of is that, finally, I did something.

Finally.

I was kept busy, given something important to do. That was a good thing, I suppose. It gave me a little bit of detachment from what was going on. Just a little bit, though. Just enough.

This was in August. My sister, Dina, asked me to use my camcorder to tape her son's funeral. Not because she thought that she might ever actually get up the nerve to watch it again, but instead because she didn't want it to just be over and done with. As funerals usually are so wont to do.

There's a funny thing about that request Dina made. She could have the filled-in the blank in the phrase, "Please __________ Cory's funeral," with anything at all, and I cannot imagine any possible thing that I would have refused, or even hesitated at.

Please streak at Cory's funeral.

Please sing "I Am Woman" at Cory's funeral.

Please smear peanut butter all over yourself, and make a pass at every woman over 60 at Cory's funeral.

Please pretend to be homeless, and beg for change at Cory's funeral.

I'd have done any or all of those things, if she'd asked on that day. But, distracted as she was, she didn't ask me to do anything embarrassing like that. She missed out on that golden opportunity. She just asked me to tape the thing. So that's what I did.

I stood over near a wall, out of the traffic and near an electrical outlet. Lacking a tripod, I put my camcorder in my left hand. And I held it there for an hour. My arm got pretty sore near the end, but that was the price I was paying. That price was, of course, nothing compared to that which Dina was paying, so I stood my ground and I did my favor for my sister.

The chaplain, a cousin of ours, conducted his somber service. Cory's friends from school played songs and sang. Some of them got up and talked for a bit. Relatives that I didn't even know existed - such as Cory's stepsister - got up and talked for a bit.

That, in particular, tore at me. I so wanted to fling my camera to the ground and somehow carry that poor girl away from the terrible new reality in which she'd suddenly found herself. But, I didn't. I had something important to do. I had to tape the thing.

Each time, after someone would speak, the chaplain would wait for a bit to see if there was anyone else who wanted to say anything. The room would be quiet, as we all waited to see if someone would stand up and walk forward.

I don't know if anyone really expected it to happen. I know that I certainly didn't. Someone finished speaking. The chaplain waited. The room was quiet. A couple of soft sobs off to my right, where Cory's closest friends sat. An incongruous giggle way off to my left, at the back of the room. But that was it.

As quiet as it was already, that was nothing compared to what happened next. It was as if silence became a force, a fog that enveloped the entire room in a matter of a few seconds. The same few seconds, in fact, that it took for my sister Dina to stand up and walk to the pulpit.

I don't remember what she said. I could, I suppose, go downstairs right now and watch my recording. My camera hasn't moved since a couple of days after the funeral, when I burned DVDs for those who wanted them. But I'm not ready to watch the thing. Maybe, some day, I will.

I don't remember what she said, because I wasn't paying attention anymore. Not to what was being said, anyway. I'd caught, in my eye, via the screen on my camcorder, I'd caught sight of something surreal and awe-inspiring. A mother, my sister, standing near her son's lifeless body, somehow managing to stay strong enough to breathe, and stand, and walk, and speak.

I have never been so proud of another person. It was very nearly paralyzing to me, the force of emotion that hit me when Dina started speaking. I remember thinking, There's no way I could ever be that strong. No way at all.

I've been through some shit in my life, but nothing compared to that. I would have crumbled into dust.

I've often said, especially since that day in August, that my sister is the strongest person that I've ever known..

And that's why I say it.

I deny this new reality, and it slams into me.

---

Today was, of course, AlliDay.It wasn't too bad at The Pub. A little more crowded than I'd have preferred, and one shithead took my seat while I was outside making a phone call. But I got to talk to AlliGirl in little snippets, and her sunny disposition helped to brighten my mood a little. Also, it was freaking cold today.

---

I refuse this new reality, and it slams into me.

---

I also found out something pretty interesting and a little intriguing. Some little gestures, which I never really paid any attention to at all, back when they were happening. I've always admitted that I have a problem taking hints. This may have just been more of that, but I really think that it was more of a timing problem. Like, six hours earlier, and everything might have turned out quite differently. But, by the time the gestures started happening, it was too late. I was utterly distracted by then. Oh well. I'd have only given us about a week, anyway.

---

I ignore this new reality, and it slams into me.

---

After work, I stopped at Rich O's for a beer and a pizza. I had several insane minutes when I first arrived, but it really wasn't that big of a deal. Just me, being weird. Plus, I had PearlGirl look, and she verified what I'd been babbling about.

The resemblance was really uncanny.

---

I reject this new reality, and it slams into me.

---

I might get to see HatGirl this weekend. It's been a million gazillion years. Seems that way, anyway. I hope hope hope I get to see her.

---

I doubt this new reality, and it slams into me.

---

Tomorrow is Thursday. VacuumLady will come and clean my house and terrorize my cats for a while. I'll come home and immediately start slobbing the place up again. It's the kitchen that I can't seem to keep up with. And my bedroom. Those damn piles of laundry are back with a vengeance.

---

I am riddled with holes, yet I still stand. It's not that I'm particularly strong, I don't think. That's not why I'm, successfully so far, refusing to let myself fall. Again. Over this. It's just that I know that my falling would serve no purpose except to make things worse than they already are. And it would also prove Everyone On Earth right. I refuse to fall and, by refusing, I laugh in the face of Everyone On Earth. The fuckers.

---

I've been having a problem with sleep lately, and I think I've figured out why. Because, waking up to this new reality, that's the worst time for me. This is something that's certainly different, this time around.

My mind still clouded by the fading fog of sleep, only the most powerful thoughts shine through. And I feel myself falling, sliding, de-evolving into that past version of myself that nobody liked very much. That I didn't like very much. So I fight with everything that I have, and it always seems touch and go for those first few minutes while the fog fades away. Then, somehow, so far anyway, I emerge triumphant.

So, I don't think it's really sleep that's the problem. It's the fear of waking up that's getting to me.

---

I accept this new reality, and still, it keeps fucking relentlessly slamming into me.

This entry brought to you by:

Stone Vertical Epic 07.07.07

(bottle) I'm calling this a Belgian because I don't have any better ideas. Cloudy orange when backlit. No foam. An aroma of citrus that was a little bit intoxicating all on its own. Flavor of malts and oranges and light hops. This was a surprisingly good beer, as I usually don't care for citrus. Almost yummy.

Like, I know some girls. I may have mentioned girls from time to time. I look at some of these girls, and I see something indescribably wonderful. But, some people, when they look at the same girls, they see a crazy person, or a whore, or a stuck-up bitch. They see a waste of space.

Sometimes, it's reversed. Sometimes, I'm the only one seeing the bad side of people. It's not very often, though, and I'm probably right about those assholes anyway. It's Everyone On Earth that's wrong, I think.

They see sinister motives where none exist. They see affection where none exists. They see lies and selfishness where none exist.

It's, like I said, fascinating to me. But not in a good way.

Anyway, that's not what I wanted to write about.

For a long time, Everyone On Earth has, at one point or another, told me to get over it and move on.

I envy the people who can do those things. Apparently, they're fairly common abilities. I mean, just look at the divorce and remarriage rates.

Let's ignore for a second the fact that I'm divorced, okay? It's not really relevant.

Thanks.

To review:

Step One - Get over it.

Okay, that's not really a choice, is it? Getting under it, so to speak - that was never a choice, not if it was real. So why should the opposite be true?

Step two - Move on.

Seems obvious to me that step two is doomed to failure unless step one has been accomplished. After all, it hardly seems fair to whoever you move on to. Ask MixedSignalGirl if she thought it was fair, what I put her through. Don't get too close when you ask her though. She bites.

So, the problem is with step one. The whole get over it crap. You manage that feat, and the rest is a cakewalk.

Do cakewalks even happen anymore, or am I just showing my age?

But I digress.

Right off the top of my head, I see three ways to get over it. One way would be, and this would be ideal I think, one way would be to just meet someone new, and be overwhelmed by them. That would be cool, I think. You'd be doing both steps at the same time. It would be all efficient and shit. Maybe you'd get to meet Al Gore, as a sort of bonus, because he likes that efficiency stuff.

Another way would be, and this should really be a last resort only, to just give up. Shut down.

It's weird that you give up but you shut down. There are many more examples like that. Feel free to do your own research. You'll find that up and down have completely cornered the idiom market. You hardly ever hear anything about left or right or sideways. This seems grossly unfair to me. I may vote for the presidential candidate who embraces this issue.

But I digress.

Remember, giving up only accomplishes step one. And step two is going to be pretty fucking tough after you've turned into a robot or a zombie or something else with no emotions or soul.

The third way to get over it is probably the most common method.

Just wait. Hold your breath and suffer and pity yourself and whine all the fucking time, perhaps pour your heart into a blog, and maybe, eventually, things get better. Maybe, eventually, you find that you have indeed gotten over it.

After that, you can feel free to move on. But not before. I cannot stress this enough. Step one must be completed before step two can succeed.

For those keeping score at home, I'm still fucking awake.