Sometimes I can't seem to shut up.

There are three people who are usually the brunt of my rambling assaults. OddlyFamiliarGirl may have gotten the hint and moved to Siberia so as to not have to listen to me any more. And RockGirl has never had to face me when I babble - it's always in email form. She's got it easy. But, MusicalYuppieDude is still hanging tough, only rolling his eyes when I'm not looking.

I can hear his eyes rolling, though. It's kind of a squishy/squeaky sound. He should get that sound checked by a doctor. It can't be healthy.

Anyway, the thing is, this thing right now, I think it's perfectly reasonable that I'm concerned. I keep thinking that I'm being reasonable. I keep telling myself that I'm being reasonable. And, so far, nobody has told me otherwise. Including myself, and I'm really the only one listening anyway.

If only I could explain myself, just a little bit, without causing trouble.

I don't know how do that. I don't know what I could say that might actually be believed. I don't even know where to start.

I made a pact with myself, a long time ago. I promised myself that I would resist the urge to start babbling, and keep babbling, until I'd said everything that there was to say. As a compromise, I promised myself that, if I were asked and only if I were asked, well then all bets would be off.

I fear that I may end up breaking that pact. I fear that I may never be asked, and I fear that invalid assumptions will be made.

I cannot allow that to happen.

This is too important.

This is everything.

If I were to start babbling, I think I'd say that I'm not writing wedding vows, and I'm not out buying gallons of anal lubrication. It's not like that, and it was never like that. Never never never never never.

I'm just trying to get my life back, That's all. And, for the last couple of days, I haven't liked my odds very much.

It was really a no-win situation. I mean, every fiber of my being told me to leave, but I knew that leaving would have only made things worse. It would have been misinterpreted, just like everything else.

This isn't about what people think it's about. Occam's Razor, once again, fails to live up to its reputation. It's a false lead. Fuck, it even fooled me for a little while there, before I'd had some time to digest things.

Sometimes I think about becoming more forthcoming and spontaneous. People tell me that I should do that. But, when I really think about it, I don't really see how that would help anything. Seems like I'd have to start spending all of my time explaining myself and doing damage control. I think my current modus operandi for living, waiting to explode, is much better.

Still, it would be nice to be able to say some things. Just to clear the air a little. I know there are questions that should be asked yet never will be asked. So sometimes I think that maybe I should just start preemptively providing answers.

Maybe I would, if I thought I'd be believed.

I went out tonight. I wrote a bunch of stuff in my notebook. It was relaxing, I suppose. I haven't done that in a long time.

Anyway, nobody needs my bullshit. So I'm going to stop for a while.

Plus, I'm very tired.

I'm in a crappy mood.

I'm not allowed to be in a crappy mood, and I'm not allowed to say why I'm in a crappy mood. These two restrictions combine to shove me into an even crappier mood. It's all circular and shit.

I actually wrote a nice little entry about my crappy mood. It stayed up for about eight hours before I deleted it. I hate it when I write bullshit like that.

Anyway.

I got to Rich O's a little after 6:00 last night. This was pretty early for me, but I wanted to give myself the best chance of getting a seat. I needn't have bothered - it wasn't too crowded at all, and seats were fairly plentiful.

I sat on the loveseat for a while. This dude who looks like my cousin Robbie was there with some of his friends. I had myself a Gouden Carolus Noel (50) and listened to them rag on each other for an hour or so. Then I moved to the kiddie table so I could eat some pizza in peace.

My second beer was new to me:

Jolly Pumpkin Noel de Calabaza

(draft) Hazy dark amber. Decent head that faded quickly. Slightly sour aroma. Slightly sour finish. Not much else to it. A decent beer, but not really worth my time. I tried to give half the glass away, but nobody wanted it.

Then some bullshit happened.

Then HatGirl came in with LuckyFucker.

HatGirl!

Yay!

This was about when I had a Brooklyn Black Chocolate Stout (14). It was quite good, and quite strong. So I cut myself off for a while, and had Diet Cokes while I talked to HatGirl and LuckyFucker.

Then some more bullshit happened.

Eventually I found my way to the throne. I sat there and talked to HatGirl and TremensGirl for quite a while. After HatGirl and LuckyFucker left, I continued to talk to TremensGirl for a while. I don't remember what any of the conversations were about. Probably stuff like, "Stop being such a grouchy pussy, Dave."

I ended up having a couple glasses of Schlenkerla Marzen (2263) to close out the night.

Sometimes, I get the impression that people give a shit. Hell, sometimes they even come right out and tell me that they give a shit.

When that happens, it's like a ringing in my ears. I notice it, but I kinda wish that I didn't.

Because it's distracting to me. And I don't want to be distracted. I want to listen, with every ounce of my being, for a sound that will never come.

I'm an asshole, by the way, in case anyone was wondering.

Two hours after my dentist appointment, my tongue still lay in my mouth like a dead rat. I began to fear that it might not return to normal in time for tonight's Saturnalia kick-off at Rich O's. The thought of missing the good beer put me in a bit of a funk. Plus, HatGirl kept emailing me to see which beers Saturnalia would have to offer, and when I would be there.

Luckily, magically, amazing, at about 6:30, my tongue returned to life. So I emailed HatGirl that I'd be there by 7:30 and I jumped in the shower.

Friday nights are always busy at Rich O's. The opening nights for beer festivals are also always busy. Roger, via some bizarre decision-making process which I will probably never understand, invariably chooses to start his festivals on Friday nights.

So, it was very crowded. Between all the Friday weirdoes and all the festival beer snobs, the place was already filled-up by the time I got there a little after 7:00. As I made my way into Rich O's proper, I spied a lone open seat at the bar. So I hurried over there, saying hello to TremensGirl on the way. She was sitting on the loveseat.

Once I'd seated myself, and ordered a Schlenkerla Marzen (2195), I surveyed my surroundings. About an even mix of weirdoes, strangers, and regulars. The one weirdo sitting alone at the kiddie table turned out to be PlantDude, so I decided to move there. But then I looked at the sofa and, lo and behold, there was NormalGirl!

She hadn't seen me yet, so I texted her a quick, "Hi, stranger!"

But before her phone could ring, our eyes met, and I had to go and ruin the surprise by telling her that I'd just texted her.

Because NormalGirl is 4,430,087,701.00046 times prettier than PlantDude, I eschewed the kiddie table and moved to the sofa instead, strategically placing myself between NormalGirl and this other hot girl who turned out to be one of her friends from nursing school. I shall call her RahRahGirl, because she's a cheerleader, and that's what cheerleader's do.

So the three of us talked for a while, and all the other guys in the place got jealous. NormalGirl told me that she's been very busy. I said that I understand. If and/or when and/or where our second date might occur, I'm still leaving that up to her.

Oh yeah, NormalGirl told me that I'd just missed my sister, Dina. So that sucked.

At 8:00 or so, HatGirl texted me to ask about the seating situation. Right then, as it turned out, there were a few empty seats in the place. Weird, because it was still very crowded. It was just that a lot of the weirdoes were standing around instead of sitting. Because that's what weirdoes do - weird stuff. So I texted to HatGirl that there were some seats.

Unfortunately, by the time HatGirl and LuckyFucker arrived, those seats were gone. NormalGirl suggested that we all squeeze together on the sofa, but by that time HatGirl was in a bad mood, and so they left after only a couple of minutes. Probably just as well. Had I been squeezed between NormalGirl and RahRahGirl for any length of time, I wouldn't have been able to stand up for a week without getting arrested.

It probably would have been worth it.

Anyway, I spent more time talking to the girls. I had a second Marzen (2212). Idiots and weirdoes and regulars and strangers came and went, but I barely noticed. I was busy. Plus, I felt bad about the HatGirl situation, like I'd let her down somehow. Not a good feeling at all.

Once NormalGirl and RahRahGirl left, at about 10:00 I think, I moved to the throne. I had a third Marzen (2229) and just kinda vegged-out for a while. I found my mood slipping. Everyone was in their own drunk little worlds, and it was too late for me to join in any of the conversations. So I ordered a pizza and came home.

The odds were certainly low, but they've released the names of the Omaha shooting victims, and I didn't know any of them. So that's good, for me at least. I wonder what I'd have done if my ex-wife or one of the kids had been on that list. Probably nothing. I'm good at doing nothing.

Strength can seem to come from the strangest places. Usually, it deludes us into thinking it comes from something or someone besides the person needing the strength. A friend, a lover, a god, a therapist. I won't pretend to know much about any of those things, but I do know where strength comes from.

Sometimes, I open my eyes a little, and I look around me. I don't do this very often, though. It's too much.

I see a downward spiral, and I hear a silent scream, and I know that I cannot help, because I fear being caught in the downdraft. And this tears at me, but I do what I can. I cannot slow her fall, but I will be there to help her stand back up.

I see unbelievable grief, and I know that I cannot help, because I can never fully understand. And this tears at me, but I do what I can. I cannot ease her grief, but I can be there when she wants to feel normal for a minute or an hour or a day.

I see infinite patience, in an endless battle with infinite disappointment. And, I fear that perfect balance is shifting in the wrong direction. And this tears at me, but I do what I can. I cannot give her advice, for I could never be objective, but I can support every decision she makes. Even if I think it's wrong.

I see unwarranted guilt, blame that is reflected straight back because in any other direction it might be lost forever. And I know that I cannot help, because I am irrelevant to her pain. And this tears at me, but I do what I can. Which, in this case, isn't much. I try to be a friend even when that seems way too shallow a goal.

I see a valiant struggle for independence, and I know that I cannot help, for independence is self-defining. And this tears at me, but I do what I can. I applaud her and I cheer for her, and I hope that my support is appreciated.

Strength comes from one place. Inside each of us. Every other source is naught but an illusion. Nobody can give you strength, and nobody can take strength away from you. It's yours, and it will always be yours.

It will always be there, you just have to look.

Yeah, right. Like I fucking know anything about anything . I struggle, just like everyone struggles. I need strength, just like everyone needs strength.

I can find strength. I just have to know where to look.

One time, this guy found himself totally surrounded by all kinds of drama and potential drama. But he barely noticed any of it, because it was all irrelevant.

The moral of this story is that we all live in our own little worlds.

I don't know why, but tonight I found myself thinking about this one perfect day. I started thinking about it, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it for hours now.

So, I thought I'd write about it. Then maybe my brain will let me have some peace and quiet for a while. Maybe I'll even sleep tonight.

It was June 13th, 2004. I didn't remember the date - I had to use my blog to look it up. It's handy-dandy for things like that.

Anyway, that was a day I'll never forget. It started and it ended in Las Vegas, but that day wasn't about Las Vegas. That day wasn't even about getting up at the buttcrack of dawn (because of the time zone change) and renting a car and driving to Death Valley, simply because I'd never been there before and I thought it would be cool to go there.

It was a long drive. It was very hot even before I'd dropped below sea-level. The scenery consisted of rocks and more rocks, and weeds and more weeds. I was pretty sure, a couple of times, that I'd gotten lost, and that I'd die out there in the desert. Perhaps buzzards would eat my eyes while my heart still beat and my brain still registered pain.

But that day wasn't about rocks or weeds or about getting lost and dying, or even about buzzards eating my eyes while I screamed.

I have a pretty good memory for dates. Anniversaries, I mean. Some particularly good thing happened on a certain date, or some incredibly bad thing happened on some other date, I usually remember that date. But this time, this time I had to go look the date up. That's weird to me. Because, looking back, that's one date I'd have thought I'd have remembered, as much as, or more than, any other.

June 13th, 2004.

That's when it all started to become real for me. That's the day I realized that I was falling, but before I saw how far above the ground I still was.

I felt no fear. Instead of falling, I felt as if I was flying. Soaring.

That feeling, that fucking feeling that I had that day, I could live a million lifetimes and never come close to experiencing it again. But that's okay. Once was enough. Once was very nearly too much.

Once was, as it turned out, perfect. Because that feeling is still with me. Though I've since found myself splattered myself across a gray plain, a part of me, the important part of me, is still flying.

June 13th, 2004, was the day I saw a hint of an inkling of a chance of a possibility.

There's a picture, somewhere. I had some other tourist take a picture of me standing at the lowest point in Death Valley. I just spent a few minutes trying to find that picture. I wanted to see if the smile on my face betrayed the contrast between the depth of my body and the height of my soul.

I didn't find the picture. But that's okay. I don't really need it. All I have to do is look in the mirror, for that smile is back.

It was a perfect day. The first of many.