There were about a million things I wanted to do today. I think that I will fall somewhat short of that number, since it's almost 1:00 and I've managed one thing so far. Two if you count putting clothes on.

What I did was take the Monte Carlo over to the garage. It actually started right up, so that was a bit of a surprise. I'd thought that the battery might be completely shot, because last Sunday after I'd let it run for a while, I shut it off and it wouldn't even turn over. But today it started up without any problems, and the check engine light never did come on. So that was cool.

But it's still got that pesky coolant leak. So I filled the radiator from my hose and drove the car over to my usual mechanic to have them check it out. I knew that it was either the lower radiator hose or the water pump. Of course, it's the water pump. I say of course because that's obviously the most expensive option, and the one that I would never dream of attempting myself. I've changed a few water pumps in my life, and it's just not any fun at all.

So I'll have to wait until my next payday to get the thing fixed. And then, the Monte Carlo will be pretty much back where it was a couple of years ago. Running fine, but still in need of a new exhaust system.

I don't have to work until Tuesday. I'm actually pretty excited. Not sure about what, though. I mean, I'll probably just go to Rich O's every night and wait in vain for something to happen. I'm probably just excited about getting to sleep in for a few days.

Anyway, I went to Rich O's tonight. I got there at about 7:00. I hadn't planned on getting there that early, but neither had I planned on my cats Buddy and Nugget declaring jihad on each other while I was trying to take an after-work nap. The sound of their hissing and growling always cuts right through me.

So I got there a couple of hours earlier than I'd planned. I got to park in the official parking lot, and it was pretty dead at first. There were a couple of strangers at the bar. MusicalYuppieDude was sitting with more strangers at the island. Some dude who kinda looked familiar was in the throne. I sat on the sofa and had a Rogue Dead Guy (408).

For the longest time, nothing happened. After KindaFamiliarDude left the throne I moved there. I had another Rogue (428). I sent a couple emails to RockGirl.

After another hour or so this one dude who looks like my cousin Robbie came and talked with me for a bit. Then FirstGirl came and sat on the loveseat. We talked about various fluff for a while, so that was nice.

I ordered another Rogue.

At about 10:00, a bunch of PBDs came and sat all around the living room area, and they started talking about football. So I got bored very quickly, paid my tab, and left. I didn't quite finish that last glass of beer (446).

Oh yeah, one cool thing was that I got a message from BikerGirl. Actually, it was an email saying that she'd left a comment about my spider entry.

Anyway, kind of a boring night. I think the best part was when I got home and I got to sit on my swing and contemplate the universe for a while. That's always fun.

I suppose, if I felt that I had to write something about something, and if I felt that I had to use an analogy to do so, I'd write something like this.

We were just cruising along. I was driving, she was riding shotgun. We had no specific destination in sight - we just went wherever the road took us. We rode together because we enjoyed each other's company. We rode together for a long time.

Everything was good. Not great, but good. Better than most road trips. It was fun. It was nice. It was easy to imagine that a fantastic destination awaited us, but still, it was the journey that captivated me. Us. Whatever.

But then, then for some reason that I could not and still cannot fathom, she decided to grab the wheel, and overpower me, and cause us to veer off of the smooth road. Into the brush.

We're still moving, I suppose. But we're encountering a lot more bumps and other obstacles now. It's pretty fucking distracting, and it's become a lot harder to just enjoy the drive and the company.

And nothing has been the same since.

I'll go ahead and put a disclaimer at the beginning of this entry. Some people will believe it, and some people won't. Probably most people won't. But it's still true.

This entry is not relevant to my life as it currently is. Any resemblance to anything in my current life is purely coincidental.

Anyway.

We're doing this all wrong. Most of us have always been doing this all wrong. This whole romance and seduction thing, I mean.

One of the greatest lies ever told, and one of the most common lies ever told, is, "I don't want to ruin our friendship."

Why, I have to wonder, why are our friends less suitable for romance and seduction than random strangers and casual acquaintances? Physical attraction issues aside, I mean.

Clearly, they're not less suitable.

Sex is the easy part. Actually getting along with another person is the hard part.

We're doing this all wrong.

There was drinking, certainly. And conversation, absolutely. I got the crap flattered out of me by a girl who wasn't completely drunk off her ass. I got to see my sister, Dina, smile for the first time in two weeks. I got to see HatGirl and NotHideousGirl at the same time in the same place. I got to see a dog wearing sunglasses. MusicalHippieDudeMusicalYuppieDude and I split a bottle of yummy Malheur 10 (41). I learned something bad about myself, and I began to suspect something bad about a friend.

I don't want to say that none of that stuff mattered to me. Because it all mattered. But I don't think that any of it mattered as much as it could have. Or, perhaps, should have.

Because through it all, I was waiting. Not anticipating. Certainly not dreading. Simply waiting. Because waiting is the context of my life now. And, not coincidentally, it's also the title of this entry.

On Sunday I spend almost the entire day in my detached garage, working on my dad's old Monte Carlo. When, at 7:00, it finally roared to life, well that was one of the most welcome sounds I've heard in a long time. I let it run for a half-hour or so. I watched the white smoke fade to gray and finally to nothingness. I listened to the motor transition from a very rough idle to a smooth, albeit loud, purr. I watched coolant drip from a small hole in the lower radiator hose and form a spreading green puddle on my driveway.

I did those things and more but, mostly, I waited. After I put the Monte Carlo back in the garage, I took a shower, and I waited. I went to the store to buy cigarettes and Diet Vanilla Cokes, and I waited. I bought dinner at McDonald's, and I waited.

For almost the last three years, I mourned. And that was the context behind everything in my life, every word of every entry in this journal. Behind every word I said and every thought I had and every action I undertook, I mourned.

Now, I don't do that anymore. Instead, I wait.

This is better, I think. Definitely easier.

I think I could wait forever. Sometimes I think that it might be best if I did wait forever.

Because, I know that if the waiting ever ends, then the real work begins.

Context doesn't add background to a life. Context defines a life.

I was just struck by a bit of a realization, and I wanted to write something about it. I can't write much, of course, because that would entail stating the truth that I've so carefully avoided here. But I can write a little.

The thing is, I've almost always been the moth. Drawn towards a flame that can do nothing but burn me. It's instinctive. It's my nature. The brighter and hotter the fire, the more I'm entranced. The light and the warmth of the flame - they reassure and comfort me. They give me something to strive for - to wish for - right up to that point where it's too late, and I get burned.

For almost all of my life, I've always been the moth. Always getting burned.

Twice, as far as I can remember, I've been the flame.

The first time was almost three years ago, and the second time was Friday night.

It's a pretty strange feeling, being the flame. There's a feeling of safety, certainly. And a definite sense of validation of worth.

But when I'm the flame, I exist only to burn. To consume. My heat and my warmth, they are mere side-effects to the truth.

It's a pretty powerful metaphor, I think. I really wish I could do it justice with these words that I write.

But I cannot.

I've tried, for weeks, to write an entry about context. And I've failed, for weeks. It's like I know exactly what I want to say, but there's a disconnect between my brain and my fingers. And so, instead, I write irrelevant drivel while the important stuff - the context - stays locked up.

Like right now. I'm pretty sure that something is happening that would piss me off, were I sure about it. I'm already pissed off even though I only suspect that it's happening.

I could list the details of my suspicions, but there'd be no point, without context. And it's context that's important. And it's context that I've been unable to write about.

Context, I'm pretty sure, is the most important part of any story. And it's eluding me, when I try to catch it as it scurries around inside my head. I know it's there. I can feel its presence. But I cannot describe it, or explain it, or write about it with any degree of legibility.

I'm pretty sure that, right now as I type this sentence, something is happening. Something that I do not like or approve of or understand. But the thing is, without context, people would be on their own to determine why I'm so bothered by this. And they'd all come up with perfectly reasonable explanations. And they'd all be wrong, because they'd only have the basic facts. They wouldn't have the context.

I started out tonight in a pretty good mood. Now, I'm right back to where I started. Irritated without fully understanding why.

Anyway.

Something has shifted inside me. I no longer have any desire to write about the mundane facts of my mundane life. Because only through context would those facts have any real meaning. And that context, as I already said, is eluding me.

There's a word that's been on the tip of my tongue for a while now. A word that I want to scream as loudly as I can, for anyone who might listening. I could scream that word. And it would have meaning. But it wouldn't have the right meaning, because there'd be no context to go with it.

So I won't scream the word, and I certainly won't write the word. What I'll do, instead, is think about the word over and over and over and over, every three seconds on average, until I fall asleep. Then I'll probably dream about the word. And maybe in my dreams I'll finally find the context that has eluded me so well in my waking life.

I find myself wishing with all my heart for something that I absolutely do not want.

That's very scary to me.

Because, what if I get it?

I wonder if, sometime during the coming days and weeks and months, I'll look back at this brief period of my life, and wish that I'd done or said something different.

Actually, that word different is misleading. Because, in actuality, I've done nothing, and I've said nothing.

I wonder if I'll wish that I had.

People can sense it, though. That something is wrong. That something has happened or that something is happening or that something is about to happen. And they ask me about it.

I answer that I don't know. I don't know if there's really anything wrong. I just know that something feels wrong. Things are strange. Tensions are tangible.

Something is crumbling, I think. And I'm not sure whether to attempt repairs or to run away from the falling debis. I should know what to do. Whether via intellect or instinct, I should know what to do.

And maybe, by doing nothing, I'm answering my own question.

Man, I'm tired.

My experience with tests has always been like that of most people, I imagine.

I'll answer all of the questions, and there'll be a certain percentage that I know I've answered correctly. The rest of the questions I'll either think I got right, or hope I got right.

In most cases, because I'm not particularly stupid, the number which I know I've answered correctly is pretty high. Then anything else is just icing on the cake.

Even on those tests that have been especially hard, I might know for sure that I've answered, say, fifty percent of the questions correctly. In those cases, I can use simple math to keep my optimism up.

Like, say it's a multiple-choice test with four options per question. I get fifty percent right because I know the answers. Pure blind random luck should ensure that I answer twenty-five percent of the remaining questions correctly. So that's sixty-two and a half percent, and that's still not great. But because I'm usually not a total idiot, let's say I can narrow my choices down to two out of the four. Then random luck should get me fifty percent of those remaining answers. That's seventy-five percent, and I can certainly live with that. And of course the fact that I'm not really relying on random luck makes my actual score even higher.

So I took this practice test last night. It consisted of forty multiple-choice questions with four options for each question. I took the test, and I counted the number of questions which I knew, without a doubt, that I'd answered correctly.

The counting didn't take very long.

Two.

There were two questions out of forty that I knew I'd nailed.

The answers were in the back of the test. I got thirty-four correct. A passing score was twenty-six.

So apparently my knowledge of the subject is decent, but my confidence in that knowledge sucks big ones.

Today was the real test. It was also forty questions, with four options per question.

I know that I nailed a whopping ten of the answers.

Pure blind random luck would get me to seventeen and a half correct. Narrowing my choices down to two would get me to twenty-five. The fact that I'm not really relying on luck should get me over twenty-six so I pass.

This was a hard class, and it was a hard test. I'm not especially worried, but I'm not especially confident either. And I'm definitely glad that it's over.