I suppose you'll read this and the gist of my words will somehow make through that thick layer of fat and dead cells you have in place of a brain, and you'll think, "Damn, I'm sure glad that's not directed at me!"

Well guess what, asshole, it is directed squarely at you.

I ask for one fucking thing in the entire time I've known you - hell, maybe one thing in your entire miserable life, and what do you do?

You use it to further your own fucked up drug-induced self-propagandizing agenda.

You use it as ammumnition in your ongoing battle to annoy and belittle and ostracize every person you meet. You take my request and twist it around and use it to make me look like the bad guy. Like I'm the one with the problem.

I decided a while ago that if you fucked this up for me I'd never speak to you again. Now you've managed to fuck it up royally, and I find myself unable to avoid you. Some things are unfortunately more important than that which you've corrupted, and I'll continue to honor those obligations.

But know this, you incredibly immature fuckwad of a human being: You will not be trusted by me again. Not with anything.

I can hold a grudge a looooooooong time. Just watch. Asshole.

Oil and water. Chlorine and ammonia.

Some things cannot mix, and some things you should not try to mix.

Such is the case with some of the people who populate my life.

It wasn't always this way. As recently as a few years ago I was exactly like everybody I hung around with, except for the druggies who were nice enough to keep it to themselves for the most part.

Now, however, I find myself in several semi-overlapping circles, and often I think that the only overlap is me.

Lead and iodine.

I'd no more put MethBoy in the same room as MisunderstoodGirl than I'd take NotGeorge to the next Keithley reunion.

Beer before whiskey, mighty risky.

I'd no more put LaptopGirl in the same room with VigilanteGirl than I'd put my sister's fiancé in the same room with her ex-husband. Or SpoonsGirl with any single and lonely guy.

Alcohol and ibuprofen.

I could go on and on, and that's only sticking to my familiar and social circles. If I considered the work circle the number of potentially disastrous combinations would approach infinity.

I was going somewhere with this, but I forget where.

Just a little bored yesterday.

Saint Fucking Valentine's Day is tomorrow.

I think that some people, usually the people with vaginas, must have a kind of secondary internal clock - sort of like circadian rhythm but an annual one - that kicks in each February.

An alarm goes off around February 10th and these people start scrambling like mad to make sure they're not alone on the 14th.

I have a different kind of goal for Valentine's Day. The goal of not doing anything so stupid I'll regret it for a very long time.

Twenty years ago tomorrow I proposed to my ex-wife. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but that one action, fueled in part by the timing of the holiday, proved to be disastrous.

Last night I did my best to enjoy myself despite feeling like a complete asshole. I managed to do okay. I had a CorsenDonk Christmas Ale while talking with CoffeeDude, and after a while NotGeorge came in and I had a Robert The Bruce and a Tunnel Vision.

The Valentine Effect was very evident last night. Rich O's was the site of a nearly constant stream of attractive single women, all looking for whatever it is they're looking for when they get desperate. NotGeorge is a good person to share nights like last night with - his radar for pretty girls is highly accurate and useful.

So I ended up having a good, but not great, night at Rich O's. The lack of sleep begun the night before, combined with the necessity of again having to run the emotional gauntlet that is MixedSignalGirl, had put me in an irritated mood. Then the parade of lovelies and the good conversations picked me back up to normal.

Hey,

The restraint I displayed tonight surprised even me.

Some day I hope you'll appreciate the effort I put forth.

It was for your own good, after all.

Went to see the play Seussical at the high school last night. My niece was in it, and my nephew made a couple of appearances as a stagehand.

I enjoyed the play, especially the performance of one of my niece's friends as a yellow bird. There were two things that struck me as unusual though.

I realized about halfway through the thing that, as good as it was, it would probably be unbelievable if I were stoned - and that's a thought I haven't had in over two decades.

Near the end, when the Whos are trying to be heard, one of the characters takes a deep breath and shouts

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu...

I was positive that this kid was going to say fuck but the applause over how long he held the fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu made it impossible to hear how he finished.

After the play, I went to Rich O's and met up with my sister's friend SpoonsGirl and her imaginary friend HotBlonde. I had a Corsendonk Christmas Ale, a Rogue Dead Guy, and a Hitachino Red Rice Ale. Rich O's wasn't as crowded as Fridays have been lately, but of course I did arrive later than usual.

SpoonsGirl wanted to steal a mead cup then, when I told her I wouldn't allow it, she grudgingly offered to buy a mead cup, but they didn't have any for sale. I promised SpoonsGirl to remind someone to order an extra one sometime so she could buy it.

Yesterday for work we went to the zoo.

It was the first time I'd been there in a while. I guess I've become a little uneasy about the whole idea of keeping all these animals on display for our amusement.

I know, I know, we also get to study them, learn to appreciate them, and in many cases, help to save them from extinction.

Extinction that we're causing.

It's the apes that make me the saddest. Their faces are capable of showing all these emotions, and the only emotion to see at the zoo is sadness. Sadness at being trapped. Sadness at being stared at, pointed at. Even the ones born and raised in captivity are sad - they just don't know why because they don't know anything different.

At least on a conscious level - or whatever passes for a conscious level in apes - they don't know what they're missing but they know they're missing something.

I don't know, I guess I think that by taking these animals from where they belong, we're taking a lot more than just their freedom. We get to look at them, and study them, but we're only seeing their physical being. The rest of them, their wildness, their spirit, their soul if you will, is long gone.

If it ever had a chance to exist at all.

Now, after writing this, I feel like a hypocrite because I've got three cats that never get to leave the house.

It's for their own good, I keep telling myself.

Different for me, anyway.

All day yesterday I was working, in my head, on this entry about 'blogging and how it's not only about opening up, it can also be about showing off.

Then last night I got this other idea to write about the creative implications of living near natural wonders like Mt. Rainier or The Grand Canyon.

Well, these two ideas ended up cancelling each other out in my head, so I didn't write a damn thing yesterday.

This damn gorilla is really testing my patience.

I've tried threatening it. I've tried reasoning with it. I've even tried to tempt it with trinkets.

I can't get it to budge. Talk about a one-track mind.

I have one pretty drastic thing left to try, my secret weapon actually, but I'm reluctant to use it. I don't want to kill the pitiful thing - I just want it to get out of my face.

I guess I'll give it a little more time. Maybe if I just ignore it for a while it'll get bored and leave on its own.

Sitting at Rich O's after work today, talking with Roger and some guy I don't know, and drinking a couple of those Hitachino Red Rice Ales, I was reminded of an idea I had last night.

To test this idea, I asked the bartender to bring me a small amount of NABC Tunnel Vision and a small amount of Rogue Smoke Ale.

Oh, yeah, I asked him to bring them both in the same glass.

For whatever reason, I just figured that the honey sweetness of the Tunnel Vision and the smoky bitterness of the Rogue Smoke would play off each other quite well.

I actually think I was right. I would drink the stuff if it were available.

Now I know, if I ever decide to cave in to the peer pressure and dabble at homebrewing, what my first beer will be. A Belgian wheat with smoke and honey.