(response to message)

are these based on real veiws(sic) of scenery

Some of the terrain shapes are obtained from real-life terrain data files, called "DEMs" - but most of my terrains, and all of my surfaces and atmospheres, are my own creations.

I'm supposed to be in New Albany in three minutes.

Seeing as how I'm still sitting here with wet hair, I don't think I'm going to make it.

I woke up from a nap, and I thought it was 5:30, so I've been dicking around for an hour and a half.

Oops.

One of my nephews is playing in a band or something. They're not supposed to start until 7:30, but supposedly they could start early. I hope not, or I'll miss it.

Me so stoopid!

(This is taken from my memory of that day. The dialogue is not exact, but I think it's pretty close. You'll get the gist anyway. This is also very long. Just remember that I hate writing dialogue, and maybe that'll make you feel better for having to read this monstrosity. This is killing me at least as much as it's killing you.)

First, I want to say how we met. I want to say it first because it has a lot to do with how we ended.

Fate is a silly concept to me. The idea that everything is preordained, that our lives are mapped out by some higher power, that free will is only an illusion - this just strikes me as ludicrous.

So I don't think it was fate that caused us to meet. I think it was mere random chance. That deer, no hand reached down from the heavens and pushed it onto the highway. It was probably running from a hunter or something.

The deer was struck by the car in front of me. Struck hard. Hard enough to send it flying. Hard enough to make me wish I hadn't found its body when I went to check on it.

The car in front of me screeched to a stop on the side of the road, and I pulled over as well. I ran up to see if the driver was okay.

I don't believe in fate. Fate is a silly concept.

A girl, her knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. A girl, her eyes clenched shut, tears running down her cheeks, her mouth moving constantly. A silent prayer perhaps? Nope. As I got close I could see that she was mouthing the same word over and over.

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck...

I tapped on her window. "Are you okay, miss?" I asked. I'm always formal with strangers. I don't know why.

She turned to me, and gave me a funny look. "Was that a deer? Please tell me that was a deer!" she cried as she rolled down her window.

"It was a deer," I answered.

"Did I kill it?" she asked.

"I don't know. Probably. Are you okay though?"

"Will you please check on it? Maybe it's just hurt?"

"If I can find it," I answered.

I'd thought the girl was going to stay in her car, but after I'd walked 50 yards or so back the way we'd came, back towards where the deer was, I heard her walking behind me. I turned and waited for her to catch up.

"What did you think it was?" I asked her when we started walking again.

"What do you mean?"

"You said, 'Please tell me that was a deer.'"

"I did? I mean, I guess I hoped it was a deer and not something worse," she said.

"You mean like a person?" I had to ask.

She nodded. "Or a dog. I thought maybe I'd killed somebody's dog."

"Oh. I thought when you said 'please tell me that was a deer' that maybe you just really hate deer."

She allowed herself to smile. "After this, I might just start hating them!" Her smile contrasted sharply with her tears.

"Really though, are you okay? You're not hurt?" I asked. She seemed fine, physically anyway. More than fine. Hot in fact, I was a little ashamed to catch myself noticing.

I don't believe in fate. Fate is a silly concept.

When we got to the place where she'd stuck the deer, she stopped walking, and I kept going. The deer had been knocked down the hill at the side of the highway. Its body lay about 30 feet down. I could already tell that it was dead. What was left of it was dead.

"I see it," I told the girl. "I'm going to go check it out. Wait here."

"Okay." She didn't seem capable of going any further anyway.

The car had struck the deer about halfway back its body. As a result, everything from its ribs back was completely smashed. Its rear half looked like an empty sock. As a result, it was dead. Its eyes were open. I stood for a second, just to make sure it wasn't breathing, then started back up the hill.

"Is it dead?" she asked when she saw my head reappear.

"Yeah. I don't think it suffered," I answered.

We started walking back. When we got back to my truck a state trooper pulled in behind me. I guess somebody passing by had thought to call them.

"Everything allright here?" the cop asked, walking up to us, with his hand on his gun for some reason.

"I killed a deer!" the girl was crying again.

"But you're okay? Do you want me to call an ambulance for you? How about a tow truck?"

The girl hadn't even thought about her car. "I'm fine. I don't know how bad my car's hurt. I didn't look at it."

"Let's go take a look, okay?" the cop asked.

They walked up to her car. I leaned against the front of my truck. The leftover heat coming from the radiator felt good.

They got to the front of the car, and the girl screamed. She ran back towards me. I saw the cop pull out something reddish-brown and fling it to the side of the road. He then started to inspect the car.

The girl ran to me, leaned partly against my hood, and partly against me. She was crying quietly. I put my arm around her loosely, and she turned into me and laid her head against my chest. Like it was the most natural thing in the world for her to do.

"What happened?" I asked.

"The deer's tail was stuck in my grill. It was so gross!" She was shaking a little.

The cop came back to us. "Your car seems okay to drive, but you'll have to get that headlight replaced before you drive it at night," he said. He noticed me for the first time. "And you are?" he asked.

"I saw it happen. I stopped to help."

"Okay." He sounded dubious. "Ma'am, I'll need to take down some information. Would you please come sit in my car?"

The girl pulled away from me, an oddly disconcerting feeling. She asked me, "Will you please get my phone and call my brother? I don't want to drive. His number's in the memory. His name's Jay."

"Okay," I answered.

"And then you'll wait for him with me." It was a statement, not a question.

"Of course I will."

So, I went up to her car and found her phone. I used it to call her brother.

"Hello, Jay? Your sister asked me to call you. She hit a deer, and she's pretty upset and she doesn't want to drive. She wants you to come and get her."

"I'm just a guy that stopped to help. My name's Dave."

"No, I don't think she's hurt, she's just upset. She's talking to a cop now. The cop says that the car is okay to drive."

"We're just before mile marker 88 on 64 Eastbound."

"An hour? Okay, I'll tell her. Bye."

I don't believe in fate. Fate is a silly concept.

So I went back to my truck and I waited. After a bit, the girl and the cop came back.

"You saw the deer?" the cop asked me.

"Yes."

"It's dead?"

"Yes."

"Where is it?"

"Just on this side of the bridge back there. It's down the hill," I said, pointing.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, ma'am?" he asked the girl.

She had resumed her place at my side, and was once again crying softly. She shook her head against my chest.

"I called her brother, and he's on his way. I'll wait with her until he gets here," I translated the head shake.

"Okay." He still seemed dubious. "I'll just go check on that deer and then I'll be on my way."

"Okay, thank you," I said as he started back toward his car.

The girl shook herself gently, and pulled away from me. She gave me that same funny look she'd given me when I first saw her.

"I need a cigarette," she said. "Will you go get them? They're..."

"In your car," I finished for her. "I already got them." I took the pack and the lighter from my pocket and handed them to her.

"Now you're really my hero!" She allowed herself to smile for the second time. I liked her smile.

She leaned back against my truck, not touching me this time. "Thank you for doing this. Stopping and helping. Waiting with me."

"It's not a problem," I said. And it really wasn't. It was taking my mind off my own problems for a while, if nothing else.

"I'm cold," she declared.

"Do you want your jacket from the car? I'll go get it." It was a little chilly, now that she wasn't leaning into me.

"No, that's okay. Let's just sit in your truck and run the heater."

I don't believe in fate. Fate is a silly concept.

So we climbed into my truck. I was very thankful that I'd just given it its annual cleaning, the empty Coke bottles and Twix wrappers weren't too bad. I started up the truck and we just sat for a while, not saying anything.

She put her cigarette out, and started crying again. She was looking away from me, out the window, like she was trying to hide her tears from me.

"You know, I've already seen you cry, and my shirt is already soaked. We've got an hour before Jay gets here. If you want to cry, go ahead and cry. And if you want to soak my shirt some more, go ahead and do that too."

She smiled for the third time, and she scooted over next to me. I put my arm around her, and she just started bawling.

We stayed like that for a long time.

Her hair smelled like heaven.

I tried very hard to keep from looking down her shirt.

Her bra was black.

Every now and then, she'd look up. Every time she did it, I wondered if I should kiss her. But those moments never lasted. She'd look up at me, and then she'd put her head back down and cry some more.

One time she did look up and ask, "So, you got a name, hero?"

"My name is Dave."

She put her head back down on my chest, then quickly looked back up.

She said, "I can't believe you called me 'Miss', and then she cried some more.

After about an hour had passed, an hour in which I felt like both the most useful and the most useless person on Earth, a car pulled in behind me.

Her brother, I presumed. And some other guy that I, for a horrifying instant, thought might be her boyfriend.

She pulled herself away from me and wiped her face with my shirt. She gave me a little smile...

That was the fourth time.

...and got out of the truck.

The three of them walked up to her car and stood around looking at it, digging around in it. The guys, every now and then, would cast a glance in my direction. I wondered what she was telling them. They probably figured I was some ax-murderer or something.

I just sat and waited. Two's company, but four is definitely a crowd.

The one dude that wasn't her brother got in her car and drove off. The girl and her brother walked back in my direction. They stopped at my truck.

I got out.

"Hi, I'm Jay," the guy said as he extended his hand. "Thanks for your help."

I shook the guy's hand. "Dave. It was really no problem," I said.

He looked at the girl. "Well, we should be going," he told her.

Then he just stood there, watching us.

The girl pulled her hand out of her jacket pocket and extended it to me.

Okay, fine, I thought. After all that now we're going to get all formal and shit?

I shook her hand. There was a piece of paper folded into it.

"Thank you so much," she said. "It was really great, what you did."

"Not a problem," I said. I say that a lot, it seems.

I watched them get into his car and drive away. She held her hand up to me as they passed, and I waved back.

I got back into my truck, and I opened the piece of paper.

I used to have that note somewhere. If I could find it I would just scan it in. But I can't find it, so I'll just quote it:

My name is [private]. What you have done for me today will probably make me cry every time I think about it, and I plan to think about it often. I know I can never thank you enough, but I would like to try. My number is [private].

PS: My last boyfriend's name was Dave and I don't want to call you that, so I will call you Hero, because that's what you are.

PPS: I still can't believe you called me Miss! I liked it though.

And so that's what I called her. In my 'blog she was always MixedSignalGirl, but to me, to us, she was Miss.

And me, well I was always Hero. Even when I made her cry. Even when we'd broken up. Even when we said goodbye.

So. Here I am again. Just before bedtime, and trying to think of something to write about.

I had what I thought was a pretty good idea for an entry earlier. Problem is, it really is a good idea, and I don't want to waste it now, semi-inebriated as I am.

I could, I suppose, just put in a standard Friday beer report, but there was a lot more than drinking that happened tonight. I don't want to blow what may well be the last bit of drama I ever experience by rushing through a description of it.

I think the only thing I want to say right now is this:

I am, for the first time in a very long time, both available and vulnerable. Women of the world, consider yourselves warned.

If you're pretty, watch out. If you're passionate, be careful. If you're smart, stay vigilant. If you're pretty and passionate and smart, well, just hope that I don't find out. Because my heart is looking for someone to latch on to, and you could end up being my next victim.

Okay, maybe that was a little too melodramatic. I am not Son Of Sam (sorry Nat), but I am not Sir Galahad either. I, like almost every other man on Earth, am somewhere in the middle.

Awkward ending to a pointless entry.

Seems that every night at about this time I find myself sitting here. Trying to come up with something to write.

I don't know why it's so important to me that I write something every day. It's just something that I've done lately. Like for the past year or so.

If I don't write something tonight, I predict that the Sun will still rise in the morning. People will go on with their lives, I'm pretty sure.

Is this enough for today? Does this even count as writing something?

It should. That writing contest was won with an entry, a wonderfully written one, about a writing contest. If that can happen, then me writing about writing should at least count as writing.

I have three problems here.

Problem the first. I've got nothing.

Problem the second. When I do get something I don't want to write about it.

Problem the third. When I do get something and I do want to write about it, I find that whatever creative juices I've possessed have dried up.

Being creative would be a lot easier if I were a painter. You should see some of the crap they have hanging on the walls at work. One giant atrocity has sixteen chickens arranged in a checkerboard pattern. Another looks like somebody took a real painting and sprayed it with a garden hose for a week.

My favorite, my favorite though is get this - a huge (8'x8') square with blue on top and gray on the bottom. At the bottom of the canvas, on a little brass thingy, it says "Untitled."

No shit, Sherlock.

Hey, I have a title! You could call it "I can't paint for fuck." Or maybe "This may be pointless but at least it's big." I think, however, that the title the artist was really going for was "You may not be smart enough to understand this, but trust me, it's art." It's the Emperor's new clothes, in canvas form.

Painters have it so fucking easy. Even the more traditional works, the ones that contain actual scenes - they're worth a thousand words, right?

A good writer with a thousand words is just getting started. A great writer will say more in a single paragraph than the greatest painting could ever say.

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd. - William Shakespeare

Go ahead, paint that.

Okay, this has to count as writing something. I quoted Shakespeare. I said "fuck." This has to be enough. What else could you possibly ask for?

Stolen from empressotterpop

Well davethepa has inspired me to have a drink and write something intelligent.

Step one: Have a drink.
Status: In progress. I'm drinking a glass of my precious Baltika 6 (253).

Step two: Write something intelligent.
Status: Undetermined.

I'm feeling a little drained today. I've spent some time thinking about things that, in all honesty, would probably best be forgotten. Things that, until recently, I simply couldn't think about without my memory quickly degrading into a mess of confabulation and self-pity.

I was thinking about a day last Fall. On that day I learned that pain is relative. That sometimes feeling a little bit of pain can be a wonderful thing. Like when you've spent the past two weeks in complete misery. When you're flying to another city, and sort of hoping that the plane will crash, then five hours later your pain is eased. Not erased. Just eased. But you don't care about the pain that's left, because you know that it could be a lot worse. That it was a lot worse.

I learned that lesson last Fall, then I almost immediately forgot it.

But this is not what I wanted to write about.

What I wanted to write about was how, when I think about that day, specifically about that two minute conversation, I remember everything.

Everything.

I remember what I was wearing.

I remember that the magazine on the table in my room had a picture of a showgirl on the cover. A girl that looked like my sister Dina.

I remember that I let the phone ring three times before I answered it, and that I waited three seconds before I said "Hello."

I remember that there was traffic in the background, behind her voice. I heard a horn honk. Twice.

I remember that I lit a cigarette, then realized that I already had one lit.

I remember every word that we said.

I remember putting the phone down on the table.

I remember starting to laugh.

Why my brain has decided to store all of these details, I have no idea. I'm not normally possessed of such a memory. That day, that conversation, they were certainly important, but c'mon. I remember how she stressed each syllable when she spoke. Almost perfect iambic pentameter. What possible good does that memory do me?

Now don't get me wrong. I'm glad that I remember. It was important after all. I don't want to forget, and I don't think I ever will.

But is remembering that a couple walked down the hall outside my room discussing their plans to go see Mystere that night really more important than remembering what I did with the fucking registration sticker for my truck?

Stolen from Cawfee

1. When you look at yourself in the mirror, what's the first thing you look at?
I dunno, my face?

2. How much cash do you have on you?
Maybe $80.00, then about eleventy gillion in change on top of my dresser.

3. What's a word that rhymes with "TEST"?
Best.

4. Favorite plant?
I'm a guy. Plants are irrelevant.

5. Who is the 4th person on your missed call list on your cell phone?
My sister Dina.

6. What is your main ring tone on your phone?
The default one that came with the phone.

7. What shirt are you wearing?
White t-shirt.

8. Do you "label" yourself?
Stupid question. Next.

9. Name brand of your shoes currently wearing?
Just socks.

10. Bright or Dark Room?
Dark.

11. What do you think about the person who took this survey before you?
She's probably hot.

12. Do you know what an 8-track is?
Duh.

13. What were you doing at midnight last night?
Erasing drivel.

14. What did your last text message you received on your cell phone say?
"R u at rich os"

15. Do you ever click on Pop-ups or banners?
Nope.

16.What's a saying that you say a lot?
Why can't they come up with original questions for these things?

17. Who told you they loved you last?
Does it count if they take it back right away?

18. Last furry thing you touched?
My cat Nugget is in my lap right now.

19. How many hours a week do you work?
I try to keep it at forty.

20. How many rolls of film do you need to get developed?
It's the digital age now, haven't you heard?

21.Favorite age you have been so far?
Favorite age, I dunno. My happiest age, 27.

22. Your worst enemy?

I hate this one guy, but I don't think he hates me back. Does that count?

23. What is your current desk top picture?

24. What was the last thing you said to someone?
I said "thanks" to this chick at the grocery store after work.

25. If you had to choose between a million bucks or to be able to erase all of your regrets, what would you choose?
A million doesn't go as far as it used to, but I think I'd take it. My regrets help make me who I am.

No pressure. That's the saying, right?

I hope so, because that's what I've been saying to myself all day. Not as a suggestion, or as encouragement, but as a simple observation.

You readers, you might find it hard to believe, reading some of the bullshit I've written, but it was nothing nothing nu-uh-uh-thing compared to what I held in. Those of you unfortunate enough to know about my other 'blog, you may have an even harder time believing it, but I held back there too. A lot.

You see, if I hadn't held anything back, if I'd just unclenched and let loose, my writing would have looked quite different. I think it would have looked something like this:

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!

After the first month or so of that, I'd probably have lost some readers.

The pressure that I put on myself to just shut the fuck up already was almost, but not quite, enough to keep me in check. To keep private thoughts where they should be. In my head. Instead of spewed all over creation.

I guess I got lucky. I managed to get 500 visits today to barenada.com, and the only price I had to pay was to die inside. That, plus whatever dignity I had. Oh yeah, and a special friend, or whatever the fuck she was. Mustn't forget her. That would just be so wrong.

It's quite strange to be pressure-free. Is that supposed to be hyphenated? I can never remember? I looks better with the hyphen than without, so I'll leave it in until someone corrects me.

But I digress.

No pressure.

No pressure telling me to feel a certain way about a certain person. No pressure telling me to stop feeling a certain way about another certain person. I can, for the first time in a very long time, feel whatever the fuck I want to feel.

And what do I choose to feel, having finally been granted this gift of freedom, after months of torture?

You should know this. You've been reading me religiously, right?

Right?

Fine. The answer is: Absolutely nothing.

Okay, maybe there's something there. Let's play.

Get one of those Nerf basketballs. I'll wait while you find or purchase one...

...

Got it? Okay, now smoosh it up in your hand until it's as small as it can be. Go ahead, cram it in your hand. Use your fingers of your other hand to push it in even tighter.

Doesn't look like much, does it? I mean, it wouldn't look like much if you could see it, but you can't because it's all squished in your hand. Just imagine it, okay? While you're at it, imagine how it would feel, being squeezed so tightly. Put yourself in its place. Be the ball.

Now this is the fun part.

You're the ball. You're under all this pressure. Now, open your hand, but continue to be the ball.

Did you see that? Did you feel that?

The damn thing expanded like a, uh, uh, like something that expands! It may be a little misshapen now, but in a few minutes it will be as good as new.

Oh, yeah. You can stop being the ball now if you want.

Remember how, like three sentence ago, you were being the ball while it expanded so quickly? Remember? Wasn't that cool?

That's what I felt the other morning, when the pressure finally left me.

And remember how the ball expanded almost back to it's original shape while you were still being the ball?

That's the way I feel right now.

Was Geisel a great writer?
Perhaps, in his own way.
But all his subjects ever did,
was sing and dance and play.

I doubt that he'd have done as well
with more realistic themes.
Like that cat being hit by a car,
or getting raped up the ass by one of those damn brats.