I was in a convenience store, and a bunch of guys came in to rob the place. At first, I wasn't going to resist, but then one of the guys pissed me off. He made me empty my pockets, and he was going to steal my rock. My most prized possession.

Fuck that.

I went ninja on his ass, and on everyone in his little gang.

Everyone except one guy who I just couldn't seem to shake. He pulled out a gun and started shooting. The cashier, the other customers, me.

Ouch.

In my dreams I almost never have to run away from anything or anyone. Usually I can stand my ground and fight my way clear. But not this time. Not against this guy.

I ran.

Somehow I managed to escape. I either lost the guy or he gave up on chasing me. I collapsed in an alley and began surveying my wounds. I'd been shot several times, and I was bleeding badly.

I needed help.

I heard footsteps coming down the sidewalk.

It was her.

She looked right at me, lying there bleeding to death. Then she turned away and kept walking. She was talking into her phone, with some asshole, no doubt.

Of all the times to get shot, I'd picked a time when she was going to pretend that she didn't give a shit about me.

I managed to get to my feet, and started hobbling back the way I'd came. I found the guy with the gun, and I stood perfectly still for him while he shot me through the head.

I woke up before I hit the ground.

I think that I'm settling into this schedule too easily. In bed by 10:00, up at 5:00. Work, home, sleep. This is a recipe for complacency. For the same fucking contentedness that wasted most of my 30s.

Not that I'm even close to content. But I can tell that it's there, just around the corner beyond acceptance. Eventually, if I'm not careful, I'll get there.

That will suck. Man was not born to be content. To just go through the motions of life.

I'd thought that Charleston would be like Portland, Maine. I don't know why thought that, exactly. I guess because they're both old harbor cities. I really liked Portland when I went there in 2005, and I was thinking that Charleston would be the same, except (a) warm, and (b) there would be more women wearing big hats.

Well, it most definitely wasn't warm. Maybe in the 40s, but with a wind chill of a billion below zero. I did see several women in hats, but I suspect that they were planted there to fool the tourists.

There were a lot of tourists. Many more than I was expecting. Most of them seems to be riding around in horse-drawn carriages and blocking the streets. I was there on Friday morning, and all of the street and sidewalks were packed with tourists. I'd hate to see what it's like on a weekend.

In the end, I didn't stay in Charleston. My biggest problem was that it just didn't feel right to me. It seemed like a couple's town. There was a huge historic district, full of shops and bars and such, just made for walking and exploring, but not by a single person. I dunno, it was just a vibe I got.

If I decided to write something every day, which I haven't done, I think it would be hard.

It seems to me that there are two primary sources of inspiration for blog entries.

1. Something that I've been thinking about.
2. Something that happened.

Well, as I've said before, I have too much of one thing and not enough of the other.

I could, if I was really determined, write about the rainstorm that trapped me at the mall today. About how it trapped me just outside the JC Penney, with about a dozen old women. We all stood under this awning, waiting for the rain to let up so we could get to the parking lot dryly.

I could also write about how, after about five minutes, I realized that there I was, ostensibly a man, cowering with a bunch of old women, and that perhaps I should just grow a pair and fuck it and get wet.

Then I could write about how, after about three steps into that rain, I was as wet as I'd have been if I'd just jumped into a lake.

But I won't write about any of that stuff, because it's boring.

You can thank me later.

Then I had Red Lobster for dinner, and it was yummy. Company would have been nice, though.

That's boring, too.

As long as I'm repeating myself over and over and over, I'll say that sometimes I really wish I could still write.

I have lots of ideas for blog entries. No, really, I do. Please stop laughing.

Like tonight. I was watching this movie that this one girl says is about this one dipshit, and it gave me an idea for a blog entry. It's a really good idea, and one that I haven't touched upon here before.

And that, unfortunately, takes me back to where I started.

I wish I could still write.

Because this is, like I just got done saying, a good idea for an entry. It could be funny and sad and thought provoking and maybe even moving. Tears of laughter would intermingle with regular tears. Yes, it's that good.

So good that I find myself woefully unworthy of writing about it. It deserves better than me.

I keep thinking, hoping, that it will come back. That elusive quality that my words used to have. Where I'd come back weeks or months or even years later, reread some words I'd once written, and think, "Wow, I did a hell of a good job with this entry. Almost like a real writer."

But, right now, tonight and this week and this year and fuck even this decade I suppose, that old spark just isn't there. I certainly try, every now and then when I feel like it, but my words no longer live up to my thoughts.

With all that drivel said, here is, in my opinion, the best thing I ever wrote.

This isn't going to work. But I guess I'll try. I said that I would, after all.

My brain is useless right now. Too much NABC Cone Smoker (6028). So I'll let my fingers do the writing. Such as it will probably be.

That last sentence made perfect sense to me, by the way.

I'm supposed to write about faith. This is, believe it or not, something with which I am intimately familiar.

Because I fucking have it.

Not in a supreme being, like too many of my friends. Not in karma, like a lot of my more hippiefied friends. And not even in myself, as I'm so often urged to do.

Fuck that. Who am I to deserve such consideration? Such faith?

I believe in one thing. I trust in one thing. I live for one thing. I have faith in one thing.

Love.

Weird, I know.

But it's never wavered, not even once, not even a little bit. Everything else stands on wobbly legs and sways dangerously and threatens to collapse and kill and maim, but love is a fucking rock. It's a rock shored up by other rocks, defended by more rocks, and camouflaged by even more rocks.

I know, that's a stupid series of metaphors. But it's about as true as my fingers can type right now.

People look at me, quite often, like I'm crazy. It used to bother me. But now, now I think they're just jealous.

Because, no matter how unwarranted or undeserved or unjustified or just plain silly and stupid this might be, it's still more real than anything most of those other people have ever experienced.

And it will continue. It will remain. It will last until, eventually, sooner or later, it will be my dying thought.

I have zero doubt about this. This will happen. I have faith in it.

So there.

I dreamed that I was asleep on my couch. Or, maybe it was my grandmother's couch. It's hard to tell, all those dream couches look alike. Plus, it was night in my dream.

In my dream, I heard a noise. Just a noise, no more describable than that. I opened my eyes just in time to see somebody walk up to the couch and crash a baseball bat down on my head.

Ouch.

I felt every bit of the pain from that blow, just before I blacked out.

Okay, this is just about the best use of the internet that I've ever seen.

Go, and read the whole thing. You won't be disappointed.