Last night was fun. Weird, but fun. A little disappointing, but fun.

I got to Rich O's at 8:00 or so. The place was packed with strangers. It was like I'd walked into the wrong bar or something. Not that I really paid that much attention to the crowd. I was on a mission. Checking the beer board to see if Rogue Chocolate Stout was really back, or if Roger had just been fucking with me again by writing it on the employee board.

It was there! Yay!

Inside Rich O's proper, there were more strangers. I didn't recognize a single person except GlassesGirl. She was sitting at the island, so I sat with her. She was very relieved to see someone she knew, and I immediately felt pressure to keep her entertained. But after a bit TremensGirl came in and joined us, so the pressure was off a little.

For the next couple of hours I talked with the girls and had a couple Rogue Chocolate Stouts (1706). I got a million text messages from various people, including HatGirl. I had a million phone calls from various people, including HatGirl.

After a while some other regulars started showing up and joining us at the island. I started to get a little claustrophobic, but there wasn't anything I could do about it because the fuckers in the living room area were still showing no signs of ever leaving. But NotHideousGirl came in for a bit so I talked to her and that made me feel a little better.

I think that's about when I had my third Rogue Chocolate Stout (1726).

After NotHideousGirl left, the strangers finally left the living room. So I high-tailed it over to the throne where I could get some breathing room. Everyone else, of course, followed me over there. Or maybe they were going there anyway.

Once MusicalYuppieDude came in and stole all the women from me, I had a fourth Rogue Chocolate Stout (1746) and then came home.

It really was fun. I got to talk to a lot of pretty girls. I got to see NotHideousGirl. I got text messages from HatGirl, and I got to talk to her on the phone. I was pretty disappointed that ArtGirl didn't come in. And BikerGirl had said that she might even come in, so I was pretty disappointed when she didn't show. I think it would have been funny to watch BikerGirl demolish some of the wannabe pickup artists at Rich O's.

But it was still a fun night. I think that I might have been a tad too honest in a couple of the conversations I had. I'll just have to wait and see if there are any repercussions.

I'll admit it. I'm not ashamed. I'm not embarrassed.

I like girls. Especially hot girls.

I will go out of my way to see them. To talk to them. To do other things with them, when the chemistry and timing is right. This does not mean that I'm an asshole, or a bastard, or a player, or a male chauvinist pig.

It means that I'm a normal straight single guy.

Like today, I went to lunch. I had a yummy meal, and two yummy Newcastles (6479), and I talked to a pretty girl. If BikerGirl hadn't been working, I might have turned around and gone somewhere else. If BikerGirl was an 800-lb geriatric paraplegic with bad body odor, I'd probably have gone somewhere else in the first place. Like to Lucky Strike maybe. There are pretty girls who work there every now and then.

Appreciating female beauty and company is not a fucking crime against humanity.

It feels good to vent sometimes.

There's not really a whole lot to say about Friday. Though I guess I issue disclaimers like that a lot, and then I ramble on for hundreds of words anyway. I'll try to restrain myself.

Because I had to burn a day of vacation for some stupid thing, I spent a very long lunch at The Pub. Had a couple Newcastles (6439). I was going to eat something. I was going to order fish and chips, eat the fish, and give the chips to NotHideousGirl, but she didn't have time for lunch. So we just met outside for a while. Then I went back in and talked to BikerGirl. Then I went and did the stupid thing.

Later, at Rich O's, I was pleasantly surprised to see that it wasn't too crowded. The throne was empty, so I sat there and talked to a couple of regulars about various crap. I'd thought that maybe Rogue Chocolate Stout would be back, but it wasn't. I had a bottle of Avery The Reverend (476) which was quite good.

HatGirl texted me a couple of times. She's out of town, so that sucks. NotHideousGirl texted me that she didn't didn't feel like coming to Rich O's, so that sucked. Really, the only thing notable about last night was that there was a moderate infestation of hippies in the red room, and they provided some amusement for me. Other than that, it was a pretty boring night. I ordered a Paulaner Hefeweissbier next, but I only drank a little bit of it (152) because The Reverend had pretty much used up my alcohol intake quota for the night.

I came home at 10:30 or so and IMed StalkerGirl for a couple of hours. Then I emailed RockGirl, then I went to bed.

See? I just used 290 words to pretty much say nothing.

Wednesday night, when I was waiting to see if BikerGirl was going to join me for dinner, I took this picture. On the left is the building where NotHideousGirl works. On the right is a building where irrelevant people work.

Today was the first day of the latest phase of this construction project they have going on here. They're closing a stretch of Interstate 64 in Louisville. It'll be closed for a month and, if this morning was any indication, it'll be a pretty shitty month for commuters like me.

I'm hopeful that, after a couple of days, people will start to settle in to their new routes. If traffic stays this bad, I'll have to start leaving a couple of hours early. It'll be like living in Seattle all over again.

Anyway, this morning the Interstate leading up to the closure zone consisted of stopped traffic. Not stop and go traffic. Stopped traffic. For at least five miles. So I took an alternate route. Me and about a gazillion other people. Including the girl who decided to crash into the back of my truck while I sat at a red light.

She didn't really hit me that hard. Didn't even spill my soda. Her hood got crunched a little, and one of her turn signals broke, but my truck emerged unscathed. Because the girl was cute, and also because nobody got hurt and because my truck was okay, I told her that it was up to her if she wanted to bother with filing an insurance claim. I doubt that she will.

My first prediction is that I will wake up tomorrow full of resolve. My second prediction is that my resolve will evaporate by 11:00 or so.

I know what I should do. Or, more accurately, what I shouldn't do. It's perfectly clear in my head. It would be perfectly understandable to anyone, if I felt inclined to explain it.

You ever just get sick and tired of being taken for granted? Of being lied to? Of being used and then discarded? You ever just want to turn your back and walk away?

Yeah, me too.

Tonight, I sat on my swing and drank a yummy Schlenkerkla Marzen (484) while all around me neighbors shot fireworks into the air.

I wrote to my friend that it was like my life in a nutshell. The Reader's Digest version of Dave. Every now and then the sound of laughter would make its way to my ears, adding insult to injury.

My second Marzen (501) went down as smoothly as the first.

Tomorrow, I will wake up full of resolve. By 11:00 or so, that resolve will be gone. Because, by 11:00 or so, I will have remembered three things.

Sometimes, I'm appreciated. Even if it's for one tiny little thing, for one tiny little moment, those snippets of appreciation still give validation to this thing I use for a life.

Sometimes, I'm told the truth. It's happened before, and I'm certain that it will happen again. Eventually. If I can just be patient, and hang on long enough.

Sometimes, I'm merely set aside instead of discarded, and the possibility of being needed again is palpable, and it keeps me breathing.

I kinda feel like I owe my readers a couple of beer reports. One for Saturday night, and another for last night. But then I remember that nobody cares, and that even I don't care all that much.

Besides, I'd have to stop them both at midnight, because some things are nobody's business.

Sometimes I hate it that people who I know read this thing. Hell, sometimes I hate it that people in general read this thing. At least I can do something about the latter case.

I can be boring and pointless. I'm working on it. Like with this entry.

I assume that people are out there celebrating July 4th. At least the Americans are. I don't really know for sure. I just prefer to think that at least some of my friends are having fun today.

I'm certainly not. What seemed like good timing, long ago, has decayed over the years into one of those unfortunate coincidences that my life seems so replete with.

And that unfortunate coincidence is one of the things that I cannot bring myself to write about. That I will not allow myself to write about.

So I guess I'll stop now.

Or at least change subjects.

When I walk from work to The Pub for lunch - something I haven't done for a week because of rain and back twinges - I invariably pass one or more groups of protestors. I don't know what they're protesting. Some work atrocity, perhaps. I just know that I hate them all.

There's something wrong with the whole concept of protesting, I think. These people certainly have the right to free speech, but do they really have the right to annoy the fuck out of people with their chanting and marching?

That can't be what the founders had in mind.

I mean, if I wanted to protest, say, the lack of lesbian porn on prime-time television, I could do it. I could go get a permit. Make some signs. Perhaps recruit some like-minded individuals. And we could all go to our designated public-property sidewalk and march around and wave our signs and demand very loudly about how badly we want more lesbian porn.

Maybe some television executive would hear our demands, and maybe not. But it's a certainty that a lot of other people would hear them. People just walking by, trying to live their lives. They'd be subjected to our chants even though they (a) didn't want to hear our pleas, (b) didn't give a fuck, (c) couldn't do anything about our cause anyway.

But I'd still get to annoy them, because I had a permit allowing me to do so. It just doesn't seem right.

I think that one of the protest groups infesting Louisville, I think that they're demanding more pay or some shit like that. Hey, here's an idea.

If you don't like your job, then go get a new one. Take that energy you're putting into pissing me off every day, take that energy and use it to (a) take a fucking shower, and (b) find a better job.

I can get my lesbian porn off the Internet. You can find a better job. I don't annoy you, and you shouldn't annoy me.

And another thing. If I find out exactly what these idiots are chanting about, like maybe they don't like The Amalgamated Drywall Company or something, well then Amalgamated Drywall is going to be satisfying all of my drywall needs for the rest of my life. Sure, there's a chance that they may be assholes, but I know for an absolute fact that the protestors are assholes. And the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Or something like that.

This entry brought to you by Left Hand Smoke Jumper (75).

I've decided to try an experiment. I'm just going to type. Whatever comes into my head, I'm going to let it flow out through my fingers.

I don't expect this to be anything good. Or interesting. I suppose that I do expect it to be real, though. And that's gotta be worth something.

I'm a sucker for tears from a woman. Wait, that doesn't sound quite right. Because the word sucker implies that I'm being deceived. That I'm being naive. And I'm not. At least usually I'm not. Usually the tears are real.

They cut right through me. Make me want to drop everything else in my life and do something, anything to help make the tears stop. Even if I don't have a fucking clue what I should do or say, the need to do or say something is almost overwhelming.

That's pretty normal, I think. To want to help someone in need.

But then there's the other thing. The realization that something special is happening. The realization that I'm seeing a girl at her most open and honest, and that she feels comfortable enough to share that kind of intimacy with me. It makes me feel a little bit special, and a part of me actually wishes that it would continue for a while longer, so I could feel special for a while longer.

If I could somehow milk the tears. Control their pace and their ferocity to something manageable. Ride that wave for as long as I can, and carry the intimacy that we're sharing along for the ride.

I think that tears are a lot like orgasms. A woman is never more real to me than when she's crying, or when she's climaxing. At those times, she's her most primal self. Her most authentic self. No bullshit. No games. No doubts. Just her. The real her, and she's sharing it with me, of all people.

I want to help. I really do. To turn my back would be just incredibly selfish, and that's one thing I'm not. But what if I can't help? What if I shouldn't help? I mean, maybe I'm just supposed to listen. Maybe I'm just supposed to be there for her, offer a shoulder to lean on, lend an ear, say a kind word every now and then.

I want to help, I really do. But if I can't, if I shouldn't, then I'd still want to be there. I'd still want to share that intimacy. I'd still want to feel special for a while.

I don't think that makes me selfish. I think that makes me human.

Human. Imagine that.

This morning I've got a slight twinge in my back. Last time this happened, the twinge turned into pain turned into agony by the end of the day.

So now I'm afraid to move.