On the way home tonight I stopped to see this girl I know. She has recently been diagnosed with a thyroid disorder, and apparently the medication is causing her to gain some weight.

So far, all that the weight gain has done is (a) Make her look human, and (b) Give her really nice tits.

First of all, before I get into my regularly scheduled Saturday beer report, I want to say that I'm a little bit irritated right now. I'm too nice of a person to single anyone out and state publicly why I'm irritated, but that should not be taken as any kind of acceptance or understanding of the transgression. This should not have been done, and I hope that it's not done again.

I will accept any apology that you wish to offer. Like I said, I'm a nice person. I'm just not a doormat.

Anyway, tonight seemed like about the gazillionth weekend night in a row that I didn't want to do anything. It also seemed like the gazillionth weekend night in a row that I went out anyway, despite my misgivings.

I think the thing is, I'm becoming quite fearful. I feel okay, but my mood hasn't really been tested, and I'm not certain that I'm ready for that test.

Man, I've just started this entry and I'm rambling already. This does not bode well.

Because I'm mainly afraid of Rich O's, tonight I went way out East to the BBC Brewpub. I was hoping that they'd have some of their smoked porter available, but they didn't. I ended up having one of the regular Dark Star porters (130) with my burger and fries.

After I finished eating and drinking my beer, I stopped by Buckhead's in Jeffersonville where I had a yummy Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier Dunkel (235). This is rapidly becoming one of my all-time favorites.

While sitting at Buckhead's, and getting frustrated because Coweena kept blocking my view of HotBlondeGirl, I had two realizations:

• There is perhaps nothing sadder in the world than a pitcher of Bud Light.


• I actually hate the Foster's and Corona drinkers more than I hate the BudMillerCoors drinkers. Bunch of fucking poseurs is what they are.

I had one of these:

Goose Island Hex Nut Brown Ale (20)

(draft) I know I've had this before, but it was a long time ago. I'm not sure if "roasty" is a word, but it should be because it would be the perfect word to describe this beer. Not bad, but not great.

So we talked for a while. They were killing time before they went to boogey down to some disco band at a nearby bar.

Once they left I talked with BamaCouple for a bit then came home.

All in all, I think I'd have been better off staying home tonight and drinking my Rogue Imperial Stout that I still haven't had any of.

For the past couple of years, the Fall has been the period when things change the most for me. I think I'd like it better if it was the Spring instead. It would seem a little more optimistic. But I suppose I understand that endings are much more obvious than beginnings, so in that way the Fall is appropriate.

I've written about my end of year tradition before, but for those of you too lazy and/or uninterested to go read this and this, what I basically do is set aside a brief period at the end of each year to reflect and remember and anticipate. This used to be something I did every New Year's Eve, but like I said, it's the Fall that's been seeing the most changes lately, so I've been forced to rethink the timing on my yearly tradition.

That first link points to the entry I wrote to close out the period from November 14, 2003 until October 9th, 2004.

I just read through that entry, and I didn't do a very good job with it. I was holding too much back. I was still actually hoping that things would work out for me, and I didn't want to mess anything up more than I already had. So I wimped out and didn't give the year the full recognition it deserved.

I'd like to correct that now, because another year has passed, and I don't feel like I can close it out until I properly close out the one before it.

On November 14, 2003, I fell.

I fell so slowly at first that I wasn't even aware of it, but from that first moment, my fall was inevitable because it had already begun.

I picked up speed as the months passed by, but for the longest time I refused to see the danger I was in. I actually enjoyed the feeling of free-fall. I was falling through clouds. I couldn't see the ground below me, so I didn't know how far away it was. I guess I just assumed that I'd land soon, and that I'd on my feet. I'd always done it before.

But this time, by the time I finally broke through the clouds, and saw the ground still so far below me, I knew the truth. I would not survive this fall. It was just too far. I was moving too quickly.

I fell for over ten months, and I hit the ground on September 24.

Every bone was shattered. I suffered in ways I'd never imagined before. I wished for my suffering to end, but some small part of me still wanted to live. Some small part of me clung to life, even clung to the pain because it was proof that I still lived.

After a while, the pain became so much a part of me that I dared to believe that I could live with it. I dared to believe that I could actually survive. I dared to open my eyes, and I dared to look around.

The real end didn't come until then, when I saw that there was nothing left to live for.

On November 14th, 2003, I fell. I fell for a long time. And on October 9th, 2004, I died.

I don't think tonight was quite as bad as I'd expected it to be. Not that it was a good night, but it didn't completely suck.

I started out in the red room with RealTrainGirl and GreenBeerDude and TrainGirl and WhatsHerName. I had myself a Stone Smoked Porter (134).

After a while, those people all left to go to this Mac's place that I don't like, so I stayed.

I spent some time sitting on the loveseat, and some time talking with BamaCouple at the island.

My second, and last, beer was something new for me:

Sierra Nevada Porter (12)

(bottle) I've never been a big fan of this brewery, and this beer did nothing to change that. A decent coffee flavored porter with the typical Sierra Nevada lagerish finish. It got better the more I drank, but it never quite reached the point of being good.

It was a pretty dull night, actually. I think the highlight was going to Walmart and buying some movies.

I'll probably think of some other stuff to write about tomorrow morning.

I'm just going to go ahead and predict that tonight will suck.

I'm not in the mood for going out, but I know that if I stay home then Rich O's will have The Most Exciting Night Ever and I'll feel worse for missing it.

My fucking toe hurts today. I stepped on Happy's stupid slipper that he stole from me, and it bent my toe back about a half inch. That may not seem like much, but it was plenty.

What I should do is stay home, drink this lovely bottle of Rogue Imperial Stout that I bought the other day, and write my entry to close out the year. That's what I should do.

Well, my shirt is dewrinkled so off I go.

Yay.

I'm wondering.

Just because I feel like I could put the pieces of myself back together, does that mean that I should do it?

It really wasn't so bad, being rubble. Once I got over the indignity of it all. There's wasn't a whole lot of pressure to stand up when everyone around me could see that I simply wasn't capable of it. There was also very little fear that things could get worse - how could it? I was already laying on the ground.

Well, one way things could get worse would be if I rebuilt myself and then got knocked down again. For with every fall the debris left scattered across the ground gets smaller and smaller. Eventually, I fear, I'd be reduced to a pile of dust. Dust that the first strong wind would spirit away, leaving nothing behind to show that I'd ever even existed, let alone that I'd lived, and that I'd loved, and that I'd lost.

Sometime over the next few days I need to write something to close out this past year. I really should have done it weeks ago. But I didn't. I didn't because it's scary to reassemble a life that was never really that great to begin with. Am I supposed to be happy that I finally have a chance to go back to that bland, boring, fucking content person that I used to be before I met her?

I used to think that it was all I wanted - a chance to stop being sad. Now I've actually got that, and it isn't enough. Not even close. I don't want the sadness back. I could get it. Easily. I could just pop these corks that contain the pressures inside me and let everything wash over me again, further eroding the softest parts of myself and eventually leaving nothing but hard, stony chunks of hatred and bitterness behind.

I certainly don't want that.

What I want, what I want is to be someone I don't think I've never been. Someone I'm not even sure I'm capable of being. A person both capable of, and deserving of love. If I try to rebuild myself, I'll try to do it right. I'll try to make myself into the person I want to be, but I really don't know how to proceed. I don't even know where to start.

It should be an easy choice to make, but for some reason I'm really struggling with it. The chance for failure is very real to me, more real than it's ever been before. The pain of my last fall is mostly gone now, but the memory of it sends chills down my spine.

If I turn my gaze from the past I'll either have to look to the future, or shut my eyes forever.