...if somebody would have tried to tell me two years ago, if somebody had tried to tell me then what was about to happen to me, what had actually already started to happen to me - I'd never had believed that either.

If fact, some people did try to tell me, and I dismissed them as romantic-minded pansies. In fact, I tried to tell myself, and I dismissed myself as an aging fart rapidly approaching another midlife crisis.

All of the disbelief in the world didn't change a single fucking thing back then. I see no reason to expect it to be any different in the future. Disbelief of the obvious and denial of the truth may slow the inevitable, but they will never stop it.

That's why it's called inevitable. They made up a word just for situations like this.

I'll know when I meet her. I just will. It may take some time to admit it to myself, but eventually I will accept it because there will be no other alternative.

And then, then once I've finally fucking accepted and embraced the truth, that same old question will be there waiting.

Am I too late?

I really like this upside-down sleep schedule I've been on lately during the work week

There's just something about being able to go to sleep when I'm tired - like when I first get home from work - that makes me feel like I have a little bit of power over my life.

Then, I can wake up at midnight or whenever, and watch my tivoed TV shows and read a little and maybe even write a little bit myself and I can do all of those things while I'm fairly alert and awake.

Or, if the mood strikes me, I can sleep all fucking night. It's my life, and my choice.

Of course nothing is perfect. I still have to flip my schedule back around in time for the weekends. That hasn't proved to be too tough so far though. All I need is the willpower to get off the damn couch no later than 8:00 on Thursday night.

Man, this was an exciting entry.

I'd like to think that there'll be no doubt, when I meet her.

I'd like to think that, but recent and not so recent events in my life have convinced me that this will most likely not be the case. There will be doubt, and there will be fear, and there will be insecurity and indecision and hesitance.

What there will be, most of all I think, is disbelief.

For when I meet her, whoever she might be, and I find myself thinking about her and longing for her and wanting her and not that other girl that, let's be honest, isn't much more than a memory to me now - How could I just blindly accept what was happening to me?

Is it really possible to blow your only chance at love and then discover that it wasn't really your only chance at all? That it was just another in a series, another rung in a ladder?

That it was all really just leading up to something new and better and maybe this time interconnecting and interlocking and interacting?

Requited love. Wouldn't that be something?

I guess I'll believe it when I see it.

I'm still waiting.

Tonight I watched the show Prison Break, which is back after a long Winter hiatus.

Although it's pretty clear from the title of the show that there will indeed be an escape at some point, the drama building up to the scheduled prisoner execution is still fairly gripping. If you like that sort of thing. Which I do.

I got to thinking, What if it was me?

I don't mean what if it was me that was about to be executed after being framed for murder. That would be pretty fucked up, to be sure, but I mean What if I knew that I only had a few hours left to live?

What the hell, what if I had a few weeks instead of a few hours?

What would I do? What would I say? How would I act?

The first thing I'd do would be quit my job. Hang out with my friends and my family. Not for too long though. Just long enough to ease a little bit of the guilt I'd feel for what came next.

I would start selling my possessions. I'd need the money to make my last few weeks enjoyable. Everything would be sold except my house, which would go to my sisters upon my death, and my pool cue, which I'd take with me on a little trip. I'd say goodbye to my home and my cats and my family and my parents' graves and I'd hit the road.

I'd go to Omaha, In hopes that my friend Mike could spare some time to knock some balls around for a while. Maybe I'd kick his ass like I did in the old days. Maybe I'd get him to start throwing chalk around. Good times.

There would be no other reason for me to go to Omaha, so I wouldn't stay for very long. That life ended a long time ago.

Then I'd drive North and West. I like to think that I'd stop in Montana. I owe a couple of people there a big apology. I like to think that I'd do that, but the truth is I don't have the slightest idea where to even start looking for them. I'd probably just end up wishing my best to the trees and the mountains I drove through.

Next, I'd go to Seattle, and I'd stay there until I had only a week left. I'd hang out at my old bar, and drink beer and shoot pool with my old friends. Gene and Holly would probably get sick of me hanging around them so much. That's too bad though, because they made the time when I lived there bearable. I'd need to make sure that they knew it.

With one week left, with one week left I'd hit the road again, and then I'd have a decision to make. And this would be a decision that I don't think can be made ahead of time. Some things are either supposed to be spur of the moment, or they're not supposed to happen at all.

So, I don't know how far I'd take it. I'd absolutely go there. I'd certainly find her. I'd definitely see her.

Would I approach her? Would I talk to her? What would I say?

Would I tell her?

Like I said, some things are meant to be spontaneous, or they're not meant to happen. I'd like to think that I'd be strong enough to keep my big fat mouth shut. To tell her would be pointless and selfish and cruel. So I'd like to think that I'd be able to summon some tiny vestige of willpower and not say a word. I'd definitely see her though. Try and stop me.

Finally, when my time was down to just a day or two, I'd get on a plane. To Alaska maybe. Or Hawaii. I've always wanted to go to Hawaii.

My last day I'd spend alone. Because it would be a fitting ending for a life that's been spent alone. Because I wouldn't want to see the grief my impending death was causing the people I love. Because, let's face it, I really don't like people that much anyway.

A wise man once wrote:

I've heard that some animals, in the last seconds of their life, will often summon every last bit of energy and strength they have and just run. Run to hide, somewhere safe. Run to heal, somewhere warm. Run to die, somewhere private.

That's what I'd do. I'd run to die, somewhere private.

I doubt that they'd ever find my body.

In my little notebook, written between the 10:21 entry and the 10:25 entry from last night, is the following.

Hey asshole! Write about opportunities, golden or otherwise.

Little notes like that one are supposed to be the reason I have that notebook. The only reason. I'm not supposed to use it, as I did in preparing the previous entry, to jot down the incredibly boring minutiae of my life. Nope, it's supposed to be for writing down those ideas and those fleeting inspirations that show up randomly, disappear quickly, and that if stirred and shaken just right might be prove to be worthy of an entire entry.

SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: Except that one time that I wrote an entry about being in a plane while I was actually flying in the thing. That was useful, and it killed some time.

SCRIBBLERESQUE PARENTHETICAL THOUGHT: That girl was hot. I wonder what happened to her.

I remember writing that little note about opportunities to myself last night. I remember thinking that it was a good idea for an entry. I do not, unfortunately, remember why I thought it was a good idea. I mean, I must have had something in mind.

I went to Rich O's. I took notes.

9:40
The place is about half-full of strangers. The only person I recognize is CuteBlonde. I sit at the kiddie table and I order a Delirium Tremens (444).

9:44
I'm trying to use my mental powers to make the fucker at the end of the bar realize the futility of his life and leave. He has no beer. He's reading a fucking newspaper. What, they don't have newspapers anywhere else?

9:50
This Tremens is so yummy. I wish it had less alcohol in it.

9:52
I'm supposed to tell people about SassyGirl's party, but she hates even more people than I do.

9:55
I think this fucker is trying to memorize his newspaper.

9:56
CuteBlonde left, so I'm moving to her seat at the bar. It's the wrong end, but it's still better than the kiddie table.

10:00
This one chick keeps looking at me. She might be the same one that tried to pick me up that one night. If so, nice body. If not, still a nice body.

10:10
I'm trying right now to be sad. It's not working.

10:15
Now I'm trying to be happy and that is working. Imagination is a funny thing.

10:16
PaperBoy is finally fucking leaving. Yay! I'm moving my shit to the other end of the bar.

10:20
The secret to being sad is to imagine that you're happy. After a bit, abracadabra, reality shows up like a bull in a china shop.

10:21
I order a Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier (659). They've got the big bottles again. Bigger is better.

10:25
I can imagine those two seconds, lurking somewhere in the future, I can imagine them over and over and over, and it never fails to make me smile.

10:32
Piss time.

10:34
I'm not finished with the Weihenstephaner, but I'm ordering a half-pint of this:

BBC Jefferson's Reserve Bourbon Barrel Stout (10)

(draft) A very dark red. Bourbon aroma is very faint - almost not noticeable. The flavor is a quite mild stout with only the slightest hint of bourbon showing up in the finish. Not too bad.

10:38
Last week I found out that my 'blog had gotten somebody in trouble. This week I could put somebody else into a world of hurt. But I won't.

10:50
I finally remembered to ask about the ABV in this bourbon beer.

10:55
Nobody knows. I'm guessing it's less than 7%.

10:57
After further review, this beer is yummy. I don't know why though.

10:59
Piss time.

11:01
That one slut changed her hair. It looks good, but there's no telling what it will look like once she washes all of the semen out of it.

11:02
I've finished the bourbon beer. Back to the Weihenstephaner.

11:05
A chick just came in that looks like Ella, but not as hot.

11:06
I wish a Natalie or Neela or Rachel clone would come in.

11:09
I miss HatGirl.

11:15
FutureDude has joined me.

11:16
Apparently the bartenders call the island area the "red bar" area. I like mine better.

11:30
Piss time.

11:40
I order a pint of Diet Coke and I buy a Weihenstephaner glass and two bottles of Weihenstephaner. FutureDude thinks that I'm planning to get fucked up tonight.

11:41
Fuck it. I'm going to ask.

11:42
He claims to have no idea what I'm talking about.

11:50
DooRagGirl is here.

12:00
I'm outta here. White Castle sounds good.

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When this is finished, I get to go out.

Not much of a report this time. I didn't even get to Rich O's until 11:45.

There were some strangers sitting in the living room area, and a couple of regulars at the bar. I sat at the island and had a couple pints of Guinness (1197), partly because of the St. Patrick's Day thing, but mostly because the place would be closing soon and I wanted something that wouldn't kill me or get me arrested if I pounded it.

I think that island seat is my favorite seat in the place. When any of my friends are there I usually end up sitting in the throne, but sometimes there's too much pressure to be entertaining over there. I'd rather sit at the island and watch all the other idiots. Failing that, I'd rather sit at the bar with my back to the world.

It was a short but relaxing night. I got to visit the ghost for a while, and then at the very end FutureDude and I talked for a bit. None of the bartenders seemed to care very much that I had to work last night. I wonder why.

At least I did manage to make it out. It had been looking for a while like I was going to have to work all fucking night.