Last night saw a bit of an historic happening for SassyGirl and I. When I'd first arrived at Rich O's, there was a hot girl there.

She ended up sitting out front and waiting for this Bill asshole.

When SassyGirl arrived, I asked her if the hot girl was still sitting out front. She said, "Yes, and she really is hot."

That, dear readers, was the first time in the two years that I've known SassyGirl when she's actually agreed with me about a girl's hotness. She usually doesn't like anyone that I find attractive.

I've always found this odd. Knowing me, and my own impossibly high standards, it always seemed to me that it should be the other way around. I mean, I should be the one dismissing her picks. But I don't. Usually if she thinks a girl is pretty then so do I.

Weird.

Not very interesting, perhaps, but weird.

I wonder what will happen, the next time I see her, look into her eyes.

I knew the answer to that question once, but I was wrong. A few months later, I knew the answer once again, but I was wrong again.

And now? Now I don't know what will happen.

Will I become lost again? Will I become terrified again? Will I die again?

What if I look into her eyes, and nothing happens?

I think that if nothing happens, then I will be sad.

It would be like waking up from a beautiful dream, and knowing that I may never see anything as beautiful as that dream again. It would be like waking up from a nightmare, and knowing that I may never again feel anything as strongly as I felt that fear.

It would be like waking up from death, and realizing that waking up was the easy past, and that I must now find something to live for. Something else.

Yes, I think that if nothing happens, then I will be sad.

Today, after work, I went and bought myself a new doorknob, then I went to meet SassyGirl at Rich O's.

Lately I only get to see SassyGirl once a week, on Mondays. I'd already decided that I wasn't going to be at the bar this evening for their Gay Night experiment, but stopping by immediately after work was certainly doable.

So we talked for a while about her new girlfriend and I had myself a Robert the Bruce (160).

Tonight I watched 24. I love this show. While I watched I had one of the beers that's been sitting in my fridge since before Christmas:

Winterkoninkske Winter King (11)

(bottle) Wow. I wasn't expecting a beer this special. The label says "Belgian Ale Brewed with Juniper Berries." There's not a whole lot that I can add to that description, but I owe it more. Flat-out yummy. I want more.

It's a conundrum, all right.

I don't really have much to post right now, but I don't want that last whiny entry to be the first thing people see, so I'll write about my wonderful morning.

On the way out of my driveway, I saw that the dog's body was still there. I suppose it'll stay there until tomorrow as whatever county agency is responsible for such things probably has the day off for the holiday.

I got about halfway to work - not quite to the river - and realized that I'd left my laptop at home. Shit! So I called and left a voicemail telling my boss that I'd be a little late, then I turned around and headed back up the hill.

You know that feeling you get when you think there's an extra step at the top of the stairs? Your foot just keeps going down, and you freak out for just an instant?

I went back into my house, petted the cats for a couple of seconds, grabbed my laptop case, closed the door leading to my garage, and

Shit!

I'd locked my keys inside my house. So I called and left another voicemail, this time telling my boss that I was going to be even later.

I've been locked out of my house before. One day last Summer I came home from Las Vegas and couldn't get into my house because my sister had locked that same door. At the time there was no key for that door, so I never ever locked it, but Dina didn't know that. On that day, I took a drill and drilled out the lock to gain entry. Then, of course, I went and bought a new doorknob set.

This morning, I once again went for the drill, but there was no chuck key and the bit wasn't set tightly enough. It kept getting stuck. I was getting a little pissed, and I looked around and saw the perfect tool for when I'm pissed.

A 15-pound sledge hammer.

It only took a few whacks to break the doorknob off. After that it was easy to get into the house. My cats may never recover though.

So today I get to go and buy another doorknob set from the hardware store.

This time I'm getting a half-dozen extra keys made.

Tonight, in honor of the return of the show 24 to my TV, I had myself an Alaskan Smoked Porter (330) while I watched the season premiere.

This show and this beer don't really have anything in common, except that they're each one of my favorite things in the world.

I can't believe that David Palmer and Michelle are dead.

I wish, I'd like to be, at least a zillionth as cool as Kiefer Sutherland. Then maybe I wouldn't have to resort to evilness to lure in the ladies.

But anyway.

The other night I wrote this as part of a night of drunken rambling:

I'm at such a fucking pivotal point right now. In my life, in my work, in my journal. In everything. I sometimes think I could toss it all away and start fresh, but then I remember that it'd still be the same old me, so why bother?

And it's not just external. This 40-year-old shell of a man that I inhabit, I know that there's more I could do with it than eat, sleep, work, drink, occasionally fuck, and write random journal entries.

But what would I do?

But where would I go?

I've asked myself those two questions so many times that it's become almost reflexive to me.

Sometimes, every now and then, I even manage to come up with an answer. Not a particularly good answer, but an answer nonetheless.

Anything but this.

Anywhere but here.

Tonight - I say tonight but this really goes much deeper than that - tonight I realized that I've been asking myself the wrong questions.

It's not "Where?" and it's not "What?" that I should be asking myself.

It's "Who?"

You see, I've become very much afraid that I'm not going to be truly happy as long as I'm alone. And, and this is the kicker, I'm very much afraid that I'm going to be alone for a very very very long time. Maybe even forever.

I never thought that this bothered me before. I thought that I was happy before. I was my own man, living my own life and making my own decisions. But lately, lately that little nagging voice inside me has been getting louder and louder. I can't help but hear it now. It's only a matter of time before I start listening to it.

But Dave, what good is a life if there's nobody to share it with?

Maybe it's always been this way. Maybe I mistook contentedness for happiness for so long that they became interchangeable in my mind. Everything was fine with me. Not great, but still good.

And then I met her and everything went to shit. Like a magician's mirrors, all of my illusions shattered. I was forced to look at the cold hard truth of what I was.

Not just alone, but lonely.

I sit here tonight, January 15th, 2006, and I look into the future. I don't particularly like what I see.

Actually, I fucking hate what I see.

Bridges burn all around me, and I either don't notice or I don't care or I don't understand what's happening until it's too late.

Great, now I'm in a bad mood.

Just fucking great.

I've mentioned before that my neighbor across the street has a dumb dog named Dino.

Another neighbor has a younger, more annoying Black Lab named Molson.

I don't have any dogs myself. These two, plus a three-legged dog named Ice (Get it, Molson Ice) are the next best thing. I can't set foot outside my house without one or more of them running up to play fetch or something. Plus, Molson always brings me free dog shit.

So tonight, about twenty minutes ago, my doorbell rang.

I can see out my door from the couch where I was sitting. I looked out and saw a young brunette wearing glasses.

After I finished having my heart attack, I took a closer look.

Not her. Just some other brunette wearing glasses. An imposter.

Probably a Jehovah's Witness or something, I figure, so I grudgingly get up.

It's more of a girl than a woman, really. She's crying. She asked me if I had a dog.

I told her that I didn't, but that I knew most of the dogs in the area.

She told me that she'd just ran over a Black Lab.

Mother fucking shit!

As I walked with the girl over to the other side of the road, she tried to describe the dog, but all Black Labs look alike. Especially at night when you don't know them.

I asked her if the dog was dead, and she said she thought it was, because it had stopped screaming.

Her boyfriend had taken off to canvas some other houses.

I went to see the dog. To see which of my friends it was. To see if my friend was dead.

My first thought, upon getting close to the dog, was that I didn't know it. None of the Black Labs I know have white paws. I will admit to breathing a sigh of relief at that point.

I checked its neck for any sign of a pulse, and I put my hand on its chest and felt for a heartbeat. There was nothing. It was dead.

This dog obviously belonged to somebody - it was very well-fed. But it didn't have a collar. A neighbor lady that was driving by said that she'd never seen the dog before either.

So it's a mystery I guess. One that probably won't be solved until somebody puts up a flyer at Gas N Stuff about their missing dog. Then somebody will have to call the number that's written on it and break the news.

Breaking that news will suck, but not as much as it will suck for the person on the other end of the phone.

And so began my Saturday night.

The rest of the night comes to you courtesy of my little notebook.

8:04
Rich O's is fucking crowded again. There's nobody here worth talking to. I'm outta here.

8:25
Buckhead's is out of Upland Chocolate Stout. It feels weird here without MixedSignalGirl. I'm outta here.

9:00
The Pub has Young's Double Chocolate Stout. Yay! I get one (275)! Yummy!

9:14
Fuck.

9:20
In here I'm the stranger. I wonder if the regulars hate me. I wonder if there are any regulars here.

9:22
This place is strange. Maybe I'll just have two.

9:30
This one chick is smoking a clove cigarette. It smells good.

9:31
The waitresses here are fucking hot.

9:39

9:44
Fuck.

9:45
I order another Young's.

9:51
I get my beer (295). Finally.

9:55
Fuckity fucking fuck fuck.

9:57
I will not claim that the grapes were sour. The grapes were sweet and delicious.

10:00
Piss time.

10:07
Oh boy! The marines have landed.

10:11
I should have worn my Red Sox cap. Then I could have pretended that I was a tourist.

10:12
In a few minutes, I'll have a decision to make.

10:15

10:19
Decision made. I'm outta here.

10:41
I arrive at Rich O's and take a piss.

10:42
I say hi to BamaCouple.

10:43
It's still fucking crowded in here!

10:45
I order a Piraat (135) and I sit in the red room.

10:48
There's a dipshit at the bar that I don't like, but I can't remember the reason. He's got a hot girl with him - maybe that's why.

10:51
Hey! That Russian chick with the cool hair is sitting at the other table. She talking to some dipshit.

10:53
RussianChick is drunk.

10:54
This one chick - the wife of one of the PBDs - is about a gazillionth as pretty as she thinks she is.

10:56
Fuck! I need to snap out of this mood I'm in.

10:58
Nice tits and a decent ass do not make up for having the face of a horse. Not with the lights on, anyway.

11:01
Girls with foreign accents are hot.

11:06
I'm moving to the bar. I don't know why.

11:15
My beer is gone. I'm outta here.

I've thought about this all day, and there's just no way I can make last night seem even remotely interesting.

So I'm going to stick with boring. It's what I do best after all.

The place was fucking crowded. I wanted to leave. I had myself a half a Guinness (1030) and planned to go someplace else, anyplace else where I could actually sit down and actually hear myself think. I was, in fact, on my way back to my truck to head over to Buckhead's but HatGirl text-messaged me and said that she was her way.

So I turned around and went back inside, to where the strangers and idiots had once again taken over.

I don't think I like this new Rich O's very much. This new Rich O's where all of the assholes that used to stay out front, out of my way, are now suddenly compelled by the new smoking policy to come into Rich O's proper.

It's just so fucking crowded.

One of the PBDs remarked that the crowd was certainly good for the owners, and I have to agree that this is true. For now. But what happens when all of the regulars get so sick and tired of standing around all night waiting for a place to sit that they stop bothering to come in at all? What happens when they decide that it's not even worth checking to see what the crowd is like? What happens when they just go somewhere else?

I don't know the answers, and I don't have any solutions. I am pretty sure, however, that doubling the size of the place, but reserving that new space for port tastings and other "special" functions, when it's asses to elbows every single fucking Friday night - well that just doesn't seem like the most brilliant thing I've ever heard of.

But it's none of my business. I'm just an innocent bystander, a victim.

But anyway, the whole night sucked. We did eventually get to move over to the living room area, but my mood was already shot. I sat on the throne and listened to everyone else yammer on and on about various topics. HatGirl and I traded some text messages back and forth because it just seemed easier even though she was sitting three feet away from me.

I had myself a Smithwick's (676). I was still drinking the lightweight stuff. I guess a part of me was still hoping that I'd get up the nerve to just leave and go somewhere else, and I wanted to keep my alcohol intake low enough to keep that possibility open.

I pussed out, and I lost all ambition to try to salvage a Friday night. I had most of a bottle of Stone Smoked Porter (154), and LuckyFucker had the rest. I was going to order a Weihenstephaner, but surprise! they were out. That's probably my fault. They're also out of Baltika 6. That's probably my fault too.

So I ordered a Fischer's Amber Ale, and only drank a little bit of it, then I went home.

What a waste of a night.

I am irritated by your lie.

You lie to yourself. You lie to him. You lie to me.

The truth sits somewhere between the depths of your lie and the pinnacle of your desire.

I am irritated by your lie.

But you, you should be livid.