As I've said before, I like to go and read through my old entries. It reminds me that I used to be a better writer than I am now. These were originally three different entries. I have combined them for your convenience.

This is kinda cool to me.

I was sitting at The Hard Rock in Louisville for lunch. I usually go to The Pub, but it was too crowded today, plus I wanted some potato skins.

Anyway, I was sitting at the bar, and down about four or five seats from me were two hot girls. A short-haired blonde and a long-haired brunette. Both pretty, but in very different ways. One sexy and sultry, the other perky and vivacious.

So I spent quite a bit of time trying to figure out which one was the hotter of the two. I know, it's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it.

I kept glancing over there, getting no closer to making up my mind as to which was hotter, and eventually the blonde caught me looking. She kind of smiled. I smiled back, then turned back to my food, 'cause I'm all shy and shit. I could see out of the corner of my eye that both girls were now looking at me, though I couldn't hear what they were saying. Probably arguing over which of them was hotter, I figured.

I'd just about decided to stage a kissing contest between them when the blonde spoke to me.

"You kept looking over here at us for a half-hour, and now you've suddenly stopped. What's up with that?" she asked in a not very nice way.

"Well," I said. "I was trying to decide which of you would be my new girlfriend, but now I've made up my mind and I don't have to look any more."

"Oh really?" the blonde said. She was smiling, so she was at least slightly amused.

"Yep," I said. "You're both very pretty, but I'm thinking that you're not very nice, so I choose your friend."

"You sure know how to hold a grudge," the blonde said.

Hold on a second. That didn't make any sense.

"Huh?" I asked. 'Cause I'm all eloquent and shit.

"Don't you remember me?" the blonde asked. "Look closely. Don't you know who I am?"

She then got up and walked over to me and stuck her face right in front of mine.

---

After a couple of seconds, I guess a little tiny sense of familiarity crept into my head. I began to feel that I should know who this cocky loud pretty girl was, but I had no real chance to investigate that feeling because that's when her friend finally spoke.

"What are you doing?" she asked the blonde. And then she said her name.

She said her name, and a door inside my head creaked open, and I remembered.

I remembered a party, in Hancock's field, a long time ago. I remembered waking up in the back of my parents' Mercury Comet, wearing only my underwear and a jacket. I remembered digging through the trash on the floorboards, looking for my keys and my shoes and my pants and my shirt. I remembered finding all those things, and I remembered also finding a little blue sock, and one of those hair barrette thingies, and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels, and an empty condom wrapper.

I remembered going to a basketball game at school a couple of weeks later, and being greeted like an old friend by a cute blonde girl wearing a Providence High School Jacket. Being greeted like more than a friend actually.

I remembered confessing that I didn't remember meeting her, being with her, at all. That I'd woken up in the back of my car alone and confused and unclothed. I remembered how she laughed that off, and how she'd said that she'd have to try harder to be memorable the next time.

I remembered that the next time started about fifteen minutes later, in my cousin Jeff's station wagon.

I remembered countless nights after that, sneaking out of my house with my friend Eddie. I remembered that he'd drop me off at where she worked, or to where she lived. I remembered lying on her bed, holding hands and listening to Pink Floyd. I remembered doing a lot of other things in her bed.

I remembered the night she told me that she loved me, and how I'd echoed those words right back at her. I remembered how we started to tell people that we were engaged. That as soon as my basic training was over, and I was stationed at my first base, we'd get married and raise kids and we'd always laugh about how, on the night we'd met, I was too drunk to even remember her.

I remember how everyone said we were crazy.

I remembered how she'd come to the Air Force induction center to see me off. I remembered holding her close and telling her that I'd see her again in a few short weeks, and that we'd be together from that moment on.

I remembered that I'd never seen her again.

Not for more than 23 years.

Until lunch today.

So once I picked my jaw up off the floor, I just looked at her. I had no idea what to say, what to ask, what to feel. She saved the day by doing all the talking. She's been married for a long time. She has two grown children. She still loves Pink Floyd, and she still has most of The Wall memorized. I stammered out that I do too.

She said that I hadn't changed a bit, which was a beautiful lie. I said that she hadn't changed either, and as proof I offered up the fact that it had taken me so long to remember her.

We didn't discuss what had happened, back in 1983. Why she'd moved. Where she'd gone. There wasn't time for any of that, and there wasn't really a need for any of that. We were each others' distant past, and that was all that we were.

As I gave her a hug and said goodbye, I wondered if it would be another 23 years before I saw her again. I wondered if I'd do a better job of remembering her in 23 years. I wondered if I'd even remember my own name in 23 years.

Anyway, I guess that makes it official. I have officially run out of women. Time to dig out that little black book from high school, and start over.

---

Not that it really matters. I'm just a little surprised. But I found some stuff out today.

You only knew each other for a few months before he joined the Army. And as far as I know, after your fumbling attempts to date, the only times you saw each other were when I was there with you. Shit, I think Eddie was screwing that one chick non-stop for about six months before he left. What was her name? Linda or Lindsey or some shit like that? I can't remember, but she works at my bank now. She did the paperwork for my home loan. She didn't remember me from the old days.

But I digress.

I'm pretty sure that you two never hooked up when I was still around. It must have been after. After I'd left for basic training, Eddie must have come home on leave or something. He must have looked you up, or maybe he just happened to run into you at the floodwall or at some party.

You probably got to talking about the good old days, and something happened between you two. I wonder who made the first move. Probably you, I'm guessing.

And now you've been married for over 20 years, and have two grown children with him.

Pretty weird. But it explains why I never saw either one of you again. Because you were ashamed.

I'm not sad. I'm not even angry. It's not like I just lost a friend and a girlfriend. I lost you both a long time ago. It's just that now I finally know why. So that's good. Mystery solved.

If anything, I'm a little miffed that I didn't get the chance to find out, to be angry, back when it first happened. That's a lesson that, had I learned it a little earlier in my life, that might have sent me on a completely different path.

Plus, I had you first, and that's hilarious to me. I wonder, back in the beginning, when what you did with Eddie could still have been seen as cheating on me, I wonder how many times you called out my name by mistake.

I wonder if you still call out my name, every now and then. You know, just to keep him on his toes.

'Cause he needs to be on his toes. He married a whore, after all.

My mind just doesn't seem to be able to stop today. No matter how much I've wanted to stop thinking, I've just kept doing it and doing it and doing it and doing it...

At one point, around 3:00, I was tired and I was going to take a nap, but then I got distracted by some stupid daydream or something and I totally forgot that I was tired, so I went to Rich O's instead. I'm pretty sure that going to Rich O's is the exact opposite of taking a nap.

And now it's midnight Saturday night. I think I've slept about an hour since Thursday morning. As a result, I expect to ramble. You've been warned.

I don't know why. I don't know why this week has been so much worse than the weeks and months and years that came before. I don't know why, but it is. It fucking is.

Pretty soon I'm going to sleep. I'm going to collapse, and then I'll sleep. This is my plan. It's a good plan.

I wish I had some topics all lined up nice and neat, so I could just pick the next one in line and write about it. But nooooooooo, I've got nothing except the same old bullshit.

You know what pisses me off? Besides everything, I mean?

All of my friends used to root for me They wished for me the same thing that I wished for myself. But not anymore. Nope, now everyone is rooting against me, and so I'm on my own.

Anyway.

One of the things I thought today was that I've been looking for a switch, but I should have been looking for a cure.

Another thing I thought was that there are an awful lot of things that I cannot do, but there's one thing that I'll be able to do forever. Luckily, it happens to be one thing I'm really fucking good at doing.

I also found myself wondering earlier. Wondering is a dangerous thing for me to do. It almost never leads to anything good. But this time I think it was okay. I was wondering if I would feel relief. You know, when it finally ends once and for all. I don't know if I would or not. Certainly not right away. Right away would suck. I might not even survive. But, eventually, maybe I'd be relieved. I dunno. It's not something I like to think about, to be honest.

Next subject, please.

I spent a couple hours out on my deck with Picklepie tonight. He's such a great cat. Easily the most affectionate cat I've ever known. It breaks my heart that he's got so much discomfort in his future.

And I had a brilliant idea for a novel tonight. Or at least a short story. Next month is November - maybe I'll try that nanowrimo thingy this year. I know, I always say that, but then I never write shit. I've been distracted for the last seven years.

Wow, seven fucking years.

This is a cancer upon my life.

I dunno, I guess I just feel like writing something. I'm a little bored at the moment. Just watching the clock with one eye and glaring at my phone with the other eye. So yes, I'm typing this blind.

Whenever that was, a week or two or three ago - time blurs for me lately - I took my cats Nugget and Buddy to the vet to be tested. I've mentioned it before, but I have LaptopGirl's cat living on my deck. Well, a couple of times he came inside my house. He's a fast little fucker. And when I took Picklepie (the cat) to the vet for shots and testing, he tested positive for the feline leukemia virus.

This sucks, by the way.That poor kitty. But it not only sucks for Picklepie, it could very well have sucked for my "real" cats Buddy and Nugget, too.

So I took them in, one at a time because they're too fat for both of them to fit in the carrier at the same time. Nugget was first. I scheduled him first on purpose, because I knew that if he saw the carrier he would run and hide and I wouldn't see him again until Spring.

Anyway, Nugget tested negative. Whew!

And then I had to do some thinking.

See, if my cats tested positive, then I was just going to bring Picklepie inside and make him an indoor cat. He wouldn't have liked it very much, but he'd have gotten used to it eventually. It would be like I was running a little leper colony for cats.

Alternatively, if my cats tested negative, then I was going to have to try as hard as I could to find a home for Picklepie. He couldn't live inside my house, and it would be totally irresponsible for me to leave him outdoors where he could/would infect other cats.

But, I wondered, what should I do if only one of my cats tested positive? After all, Buddy had been in much closer proximity to Picklepie on those occasions when the latter came inside, Nugget having scrambled into the basement to cower. Buddy would stand his ground, even going so far as to follow Picklepie around the house and smell him.

What I decided, and this wasn't an easy decision, was that if only one of my cats tested positive, I was going to bring Picklepie inside my house even knowing that my other cat would be infected. There was just no way I could see myself separating Buddy and Nugget. They've been together for 11 years, after all. Plus, they're both old, and probably don't have all that many years left anyway. Because the feline leukemia can take years and years to develop, there were pretty good odds that neither of my cats would ever develop it. They'd be dead of some other causes - Buddy probably from too much indignation, Nugget perhaps from getting so scared of a moth that he forgets to breathe for a week - before the leukemia could manifest.

Well, as it turned out, neither of my cats tested positive. Whew again!

And that's what got me to where I am. Where I still am. With a contagious cat that I need to find a home for.

So this chick at the mini mart, for some reason, thinks that I'm friendly. Because of that misguided belief, she's always trying to talk to me.

Tonight she asked me, "Quick, think about the 80s. What's your first memory?"

I said what I'm supposed to say, having been me and having lived as myself throughout that entire decade.

"Being present for the birth of my daughter," I said.

That seemed to satisfy the poor girl, so she didn't ask any more questions.

I could have just as easily said "my wedding" or "the first day of basic training" or maybe even "graduating from high school" and any of those responses would probably have shut her up just as well as the thing about my daughter.

What I should have said, what my real first thought about the 80s was, I didn't want to say. I didn't want to tell that semi-perfect stranger at the mini mart.

But I'll tell you people.

One morning Eddie called me and told me that Jackie had finally died. That was the phrasing he used, the fucker.

That was my real first thought about that decade.

Okay, so what about the other decades? What's my first thought about them?

In the 1960s, I saw tears in my dad's eyes as we watched some men bounce around in white suits on a white world. I didn't understand - dad's weren't supposed to cry.

In the 1970s, I walked home from my elementary school graduation. It was about five miles. I wanted to commemorate the occasion, so I walked.

In the 1990s, I had to shoot a match against a really good player. I was afraid to play him because I felt he was better than me. As it turned out, I entered the zone, and I kicked his ass. He never knew what hit him.

In the 2000s, I sat in the parking lot at the Burger King on Grant Line Road, and I heard some words on my phone, and I died.

I was thinking earlier today about something I'd been thinking about last week, about something I'd been thinking about two or three years ago when I read a certain book. I don't remember the name of the book. I remember that I kinda liked it, though. Light-something, I think it was called.

I don't think I'll feel that bad for myself, should I continue down this path and die childless. After all, people die childless all the time. Why should I be different? I do try to live my life the right way, and I try to help the people I care about. I guess they're surrogate children, of a sort. Sometimes those people even let me help. That's nice of them.

Anyway.

Last week, I was in the hospital talking with my grandmother. My last grandmother. My last grandparent. My last remaining ancestor. It's hard to describe, the thoughts that were going through my head and I sat and chatted with her, for what at the time I thought might be the last time.

My mind went back, as it had years ago when I read that book. My mind went back and back and back and back...

Now, anyone who knows me also knows that as far as religion goes I'm an agnostic at best. This means that I believe in evolution. This means that I believe, just as strongly as some people believe in an invisible man in the sky who controls everything but prefers to let people suffer, I believe that my family tree goes back much farther than 6,000 years or whatever those crackpots zealots believe. I believe that my family tree goes back billions of years. I think that 3.7 billion years is the current estimate. For the beginning of life on Earth.

Back then, back at the beginning, there was something. probably a single-celled organism, but maybe something even more primitive. Maybe just a clump of amino acids that had clumped together just right. Whatever it was, there was a first. The first life on Earth. And then, because of the first, there was a second, then a third, and a fourth. And then, millions and millions and millions of generations later, here I sit. Letting my fingers type into this journal because my brain is too distracted by a sweet heart and a pretty face to be bothered to write anything coherent or relevant.

If I should die childless, I will feel bad. But not, as I said, for myself. Nope, I will feel bad for the first. For breaking a chain forged billions of years ago. Because the first sprang from nothing, and that effort, against all odds, deserves better than for me to simply die. For me to let the chain end.

I will feel bad. Billions of years, wasted, because of me.

This isn't a real entry. Just a quickie, but my quickie scripts don't handle paragraphs very well. My fault, because I wrote the thing. I probably won't bother to fix it.

Anyway, I was thinking about how everyone thinks they have all the time in the world. To search for something that lets them finally stop searching.

Sometimes, those people are wrong.

I guess that's it.

Oh yeah, except that sometimes, people can't see the tree right in front of them, because they're too excited about the forest.

Go here and read it. Add one to any mention of the number of years. It's been six years now. The sixth of at least six-million, I believe.

It would be funny if, instead of taking Nugget to the vet, I put the dead possum in the cage and took it instead.

Then when they went to take "Nugget" out of the cage, I could act all outraged that (a) he'd only been there a few minutes, yet (b) they'd already killed him AND (c) turned him into a possum.

Maybe I could sue them and get lots of money.

I'm going to be so pissed at myself someday.

Someday, I'm going to feel like rummaging through my old memories and emotions. I'm going to, after some token resistance in case anyone is watching, zip straight to what's left of this blog and to these years. 2008, 2009, 2010.

And, once there, I'm going to find nothing but feeble ramblings of a man so torn-up that even breathing was an effort; writing coherent words was way beyond the realm of possibility even if self-censorship hadn't appeared out of the gray and stopped my fingers from doing the type-type-typing that they've always wanted, needed, to do.

I am a writer, dammit! I have things to say! Important things! Why have I stayed so silent for so long?

It was two years ago last Tuesday that I finally opened my mouth. Finally said the words that I'd waited either three or four or forty-three years (depending on how you count them) to say. That should have been the last day of my life, or the first day of my life. But, instead, it was just another day. Just another fucking day.

What should have been the end, continued. What should have been the beginning, stopped in its tracks. I entered limbo. And though I've tried to leave, my path has been blocked. And, though I've been shown the door, I've been unable to exit.

I'm still here. Stuck between a place I don't want to be and a place I can't imagine leaving. And I watch everything dissolve slowly around me, and I want to cry out. I want to scream so loudly that my bones flee my body in terror, but I don't know what to say.

"Hurry up! Good riddance!"

"No, wait! I need more time! Just a little longer!"

I used to always say, when I was asked, that it was never all or nothing for me. I meant those words when I said them; they were the absolute truth.

But I haven't been asked in a long time, and I'm not sure what my answer would be now.

It's the not knowing that's the cruelest blow of all. It should never have come to this. I should have died knowing, or I should have lived knowing.

Instead, I just don't know.