I went to the store just now. I got to the end of my driveway, and then realized that I didn't have my phone with me.

But that's not the really weird part.

The really weird part is that I didn't slam on my brakes and run into my house to get my phone. Nope, I just went to the store and came back.

Like a normal person.

I could write a bunch of stuff right now. A huge part of me wants, perhaps even needs, to vent a little.

But, I made a promise.

I keep my fucking promises.

Wow, it's late. Time flies, as they say.

I guess it's fortunate timing that I don't really feel like writing, because I'm not sure that there are sufficient words to describe my current mood.

So much potential, pissed away.

A few weeks ago I was numb. That was because it was simply too much to bear, I think.

I'd kinda like to be numb again.

Tomorrow I might get to see HatGirl. I'm holding her car hostage in my garage until I get to see her. It's been a bajillion years.

I'm not looking forward to telling her about Thursday and Friday. She'll be disappointed in me, I know. She warned me that, if I let my guard down, I'd get hurt all over again.

She was right.

I wonder, if she'd given me any inkling that it would be as bad as it turned out to be, if I would have heeded her warning.

Probably not.

There's this old saying that everyone has heard.

I'll paraphrase. "If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't fucking say anything at all."

Well, I don't have anything nice to say.

Don't push it. I'm angry. You won't like me when I'm angry. I know that I don't.

I remember Mommy coming into the room.

I don't remember where I was. It was probably at my grandmother's house, but that detail is lost to me forever. I remember Mommy coming into the room, and I remember being oh so happy to see her. I probably peed a little, but I was allowed to, back then.

And then I saw it.

I'd reached my arms up as high as they would reach, and I'd jumped with my little legs to reach even higher, and I'd yelled one of the only words I knew at the time.

"Mommy! Mommy!"

So Mommy would see me, so she would hear me, so she would pick me up like she always had before. So my world would be complete again.

But she didn't pick me up. Her arms were full.

She was carrying it.

That is my earliest memory.

It turned out to be my sister Dina, and I was 21 months old.

---

I remember playing with a girl. She had long dark hair. We sat on the floor between the kitchen and the living room, and we played.

I remember the house, and I remember the girl. It was probably my cousin Terri, but I can never know for sure.

That memory is so strong in my mind. I couldn't have been more than 3 years old.

---

Dad came and woke me up, and carried me to Dina's room. Then he put me down and picked Dina up. The three of us - how odd that I don't remember Mom being there - went into the living room.

On the TV, I watched grainy footage of white-suited men bouncing around on a white plain.

I wondered why Dad had tears in his eyes.

I was 4 and a half years old.

---

I'd walk to kindergarten, and my long shadow would lead me down the road. Then, when I'd walk back home, the shadow would be short and stocky, and it would chase me all the way home.

I asked Mom why my shadow was so different when I came home, and she said she didn't know.

---

I was showing my friend Kelly how fast I could run with my new shoes. I ran through a glass door.

Dad carried me, both of us covered in blood, and took me to the doctor. I got 81 stitches, and I still have scars. I remember being afraid that the doctor was going to cut off my nose. It had been hurt badly.

I was 5 years old.

---

I'm not sure what the point of this entry was.

Maybe it's just to change the damn subject.

Okay, I'm in a writey mood tonight. Wonders never cease, huh?

Problem is, I'm also a little bit drunk tonight. A couple glasses of Fat Tire (2246) and a bottle of The Reverend (782) will do that to a person, especially if that person is me.

Sometimes I really hate being such a lightweight.

Anyway...

Looking for inspiration, I did a search of my old blog entries. Bonus points will ensue for anyone who can deduce the two-word phrase for which I searched. Not that it matters. It's all the same. It's always been the same, for six and a half years. And, I fear, it will continue to be the same, for as long as it takes. Either long enough for me to stop breathing, or long enough for me to stop waiting.

Here's one from July 2009. I could have written it yesterday, and it would have fit perfectly:

It's not stupidity that keeps me here. Nope, it's knowing the truth, even when everyone else fails to see it. It's speaking the truth, and living the truth, and waiting for beautiful eyes to open so that I'm not alone any more.

It's not cowardice that keeps me from turning away and facing the unknown. It's that the unknown holds no appeal for me. And why should it? The appeal of the unknown lies in its potential, and I've already found all of the potential I could ever want.

It's not weakness. I'm not here because I'm weak, but because I'm strong. I have persevered when others would have given up. I have pushed forward when others would have faltered. Time after time I have exposed my heart to the daggers of reality and, though I've been stabbed, I've never given up and I've never cowered and I've never ran away. I've been right here all this time.

And it's not insanity. Step inside me and look through my eyes. See what I see. Feel with my heart the things that I feel. Use my lips to speak, and use my ears to listen to the words fighting to be heard. Reach out with my hand and touch what I touch, and feel the tingling of a million touches yet to come. This is all very real.

It's not stupidity, or cowardice, or weakness, or insanity. It's something else.

I know what it is. So far, I'm the only one who really knows what it is. What it's like. What it means. What it portends.

So far, I'm the only one who really gets it.

But eventually, there'll be another.

Beautiful eyes will open, and they will see me, right where I've been all along.

I can forgive a lot of things. I have forgiven a lot of things. More than anyone else would have forgiven.

But this?

How the fuck am I supposed to forgive this and still manage to maintain some semblance of dignity?

I am not a doormat, though I've played one in the past, when it seemed that a doormat was needed.

I did what was necessary, or at least what seemed necessary at the time, not because of what those things were, but because of who needed them.

Because of who needed me.

And I liked it. Loved it, even. I lived for those opportunities.

And now?

Summary dismissal.

Of whatever the fuck you want to call it. Friendship? Something more? Something less? Something else?

I don't care what you call it. Just pick something. And don't say nothing. Don't you fucking dare say nothing.

We may no longer exist, but I still do exist. Barely.

And what's left of me deserves more than this. Even the worst person on Earth would deserve more than this.

More than nothing.

What's the point of another 45 years?

This question is both serious and rhetorical.

I don't know the answer. I used to know it, but I was wrong.

I was so fucking wrong. I bet my life, and I lost the bet. I risked it all, and I lost it all.

So what's the point of another 45 years? What's the point, dare I ask, of another 45 seconds?

So, in his mind, did we lie to him as he wept from the thought of missing me? Did we only say what needed to be said, regardless of the truth, to ease his pain? Did we pat him on the back, and tell him what he wanted to hear, only so that we ourselves would feel better?

Or is he smart enough and mature enough to know that sometimes things aren't black and white? That one day's truth can be another day's mistake? That good intentions are not always enough?

I hope for the latter, yet fear the former with all my heart.

The words are still there, you know. Inside me. Straining to be set free. Yearning to serve their only purpose. To be heard.

Slamming into walls that I've slapped together. Testing. Practicing. Staying ready. Staying patient.

How much would it cost me, I wonder, to just let them out? So many would tell me - have told me - that I have nothing to lose. Nothing left to lose.

But what would the words say? Would their screams be in joy or in sorrow or in anger? Or, perhaps, a mixture of all three? I know only that they would be loud; beyond that I cannot predict. These words, they reside in my heart, not my brain, and my heart is a mystery even to me, these days.

To be so wonderfully right, and so incredibly wrong, about the only thing that has ever mattered to me. It's a wonder that I'm not crazy. Not really crazy, I mean. Oh, I have my moments when people might fling that label at me to see if it sticks, but I know better.

Can the truth ever be crazy?

Perhaps I, too, simply landed too soon.

As I've written before, I've heard that most people don't dream in color. As I've written before, I do dream in color, and I always have as far as I can tell.

Sight, even colored sight, is nothing to me, in my dreams. It's no big deal at all.

But, to have a dream so powerful, so real, that I can touch it, and smell it, and taste it?

I've been dreaming for a very long time.

Jostle me, holler at me. Scream "wake up" until your lungs bleed. I never want to wake up. Never. I would rather die.

Because sometimes, maybe once in a bazillion years, a dream will come true.

I'll take my chances.

So there.