It was one of my big concerns, actually, that I wouldn't let this end quietly. That, once this beast was no longer looming ahead of me but was instead standing beside me, that I'd lash out. Or at least try to defend myself.

I haven't really done that, I don't think. Nope, I'm just letting it beat the shit out of me, and hoping that it'll tire before I die.

---

Another concern is that the end will never be a part of my past. That I'll pick it up and I'll carry it with me for the rest of my days. Burdened by its weight, encumbered by it's size, but unable and unwilling to let go because it will be all that I have left to prove that I ever existed in any way that mattered.

---

I lie awake, and I doubt the truth of every word that was ever said to me.

And the amazing thing was the rapidity with which it all took place.

I never in my life saw anyone sober up so quickly, and then, once the crisis has been dealt with, I never in my life saw anyone go back to being so drunk so quickly.

It really was uncanny. I looked around for Allen Funt, but he wasn't there. I think he might be dead, come to think of it.

Anyway, I really do like to feel useful. It's all a matter of perspective, of course. What to one person is an obvious manipulation, a blatant advantage being taken, to another person - my lovely self in this case - it's nothing more than an opportunity to feel useful. These opportunities are especially welcome because I never thought they'd happen again.

HatGirl says that I should stop defining myself by what I mean to others. My response to that is that I can't think of a better measurement.

I'm just rambling now. I went to Denny's after we left Jack's, and I thought it was a lot later than it was. So now I'm wired because it's only 2:16 instead of 5:16.

If time flies when you're having fun, I guess that means it drags when you're miserable?

I didn't think I was miserable. I thought I was in a pretty good mood - it's the feeling useful thing - but I guess I was wrong. Maybe I was so miserable that I somehow looped back into a happy place.

Weird.

The thing that I can't seem to get to stick in my head is that there's nothing I can do.

I didn't do enough before. No matter how hard that is for me to accept. Even though I did so much, more than I'd have thought possible and more than most people would have done, I simply didn't do enough to be good enough.

During, I did too much. I was honest and forthcoming. Too much of each, because I was also hurting. In shock by the suddenness and the brutality of what was happening. I should have taken the time to let things digest. But, I didn't. I screwed up and I let my emotions take over. Oops, right?

And after? After, I don't know what's been going on. I've either been doing too much or too little or the exact right amount, but it doesn't matter, because it's been out of my hands, and it's still out of my hands, and I wish I could accept that fact instead of forgetting it every 10 seconds. Instead of always trying to do something, anything at all, to fix this.

I'm doing it right now, with this entry. Trying to fix things.

Wasting my time, some would say.

Standing my ground, others might counter.

I get so damn impatient sometimes. You'd really think, after all these years, that patience would be something I'd be really good at.

You'd be wrong.

I have this competitive side. Not a lot of people see it, except when I'm shooting pool, but it rears its ugly head every now and then for other things. Bowling. Horseshoes. Euchre. Darts.

Darts is what caused it to awaken tonight.

The first game, OtherDave was kicking my ass at first. I couldn't get the damn house-darts to fly straight, let alone in the direction I desired. I think he closed out everything except bulls before I closed 20s.

But, I found my elusive alignment, and I came back and I won that game. Via luck, OtherDave insisted.

The second game was a joke. Although I really was trying, OtherDave constantly accused me of fucking around as I mowed through the scores, easily winning by a score of about 11,000,000 to zero.

The third game, I threw one dart to his three darts per turn. Once I'd closed everything but bulls, I switched to throwing left-handed. I don't think OtherDave noticed - he was too busy trying to find the dartboard along with the proper words to describe his new hatred for me.

"Teach me a lesson," I implored. "I'm being a real dick right now. Make me regret it."

But alas, it was not meant to be. I won that third game as easily as I'd won the second, just with two-thirds fewer darts. And opposite-handed, at the end.

I can certainly be a dick sometimes, because of my competitive side, but I always try to make up for it in other ways.

Like tonight, I paid for his beers.

I'm not all bad.

I remember writing something, a long time ago. It wasn't here in this blog, I don't think. I think it was somewhere else. Somewhere that no longer exists.

There's a lot of that going around these days.

I went, in an instant, from feeling useful to feeling used, from feeling needed to feeling taken advantage of. That instant is when it happened. It was a Monday night when the walls of my false reality crumbled and crashed at my feet. March 23rd, 2009.

I lived in a place of hope, and dreams, and love. But it was all a lie.

I worry about the things I'll write when I feel like I have nothing left to lose. I wonder why I don't feel that way already. Perhaps there are still lies waiting to crumble.

Go here and read it.

I'm sure it doesn't seem like that big of a deal, to anyone close enough to me to know what's going on, or I guess what went on would be more accurate. These hypothetical friends and theoretical stalkers heard or read my tale, and they probably yawned a little.

Well, I was there. And I didn't fucking yawn.

It's all about context, see. One person's distraction can be another person's reason for living.

And now, those same friends and stalkers would probably expect me to be angry today, having been ever-so-briefly shown the light, only to be (apparently) thrust again into darkness.

Perhaps, soon, I will be angry again. But not today. Today, I'm mesmerized by the afterimages of what I saw.

I've got this annoying urge to write something this morning. I just feel like I should write something. Shit happens, and I write about it. That's the way it's supposed to work.

Well, some shit happened. And, like I said, I feel like I should write about it.

But I don't want to, at least not until I figured out exactly what happened. And definitely not until I figure out if it was a good thing or not.

I guess I can say that I don't think I'm as sad as I was a couple of days ago, and a couple of weeks ago, and a couple of months ago, and a couple of years ago. At least, I don't think I am. I dunno. Maybe I'm worse.

Oooh! I just thought of something!

There's a tornado inside my head!

So there.