Sometimes that which hurts the most is unfortunately the best thing to do. Just like a cut, that initial sting from an alcohol's cleansing hurts so bad, yet ends up curing the wound. I guess emotions are kind of the same way. They're just much harder to heal, and the process takes longer... Fuck, it feels as if it was an instant ago that I cut all ties, when it was actually five months ago. That loss of feeling in the gut still haunts. Well, since it was twenty-six years in the making, it might take twenty-six in the healing.

The beers have been going down smoothly, easing me into the loneliness of the mountain night. Normally, I refrain from liquor indulgence on worknights, but tonight I need some dulling of the sharp knives that regret and guilt bloody my soul with. So, down the hatch they go, blurring the visions of lost chances and opportunities. It's nights like these that soothe the unfulfillment of being just another retail jerk-off jerking off in the shower to images of past one-night stands where I always stood alone. But at least I was aware that I stood in the

I have had enough fucking chances to make the things that need to be made right right. And, funny thing, I almost always know how to do it-but, bottom line, I don't. There's this little fear, this apprehension of the actual energy and resolution to do that thing that always holds me back. It's just inherent in my personality, a built-in instigator of isolation. Apathy for action. Yet, when my genes produced this odd mechanism, they forgot to turn off my fucking conscience. So know I'm stuck in a quagmire of knowing the right thing, and doing the wrong thing.

I sometimes fear other people seeing the things I write. Too many times I go over my words of the past, and I'm shocked by their incoherence, their incongruity. Perhaps more so, I am afraid those words are just evidence of my damaged, irreparable soul, shattered like a beer bottle fallen from a drunken hand. But I keep at it because, well, it's the only forum where I can truly be honest, can truly let my thoughts roam without the repercussions of up-turned noses and pretentious smiles, and the stifling pressure of creativity instigated by the repetition of inter

I'm all alone on this cool mountain night, with just this brisk breeze and dark lake to keep me company. No voices. No cars, stores, or houses. Just this foreboding evening, slowly dying to give life to night. There's an essence in this shift, as if you and you alone are the benefactor of being allowed to watch Time do her work. She never fails, disappoints, brings down, or even pretends to care. She just moves on, consistently and without remorse. And, she is the one ultimately responsible for all life and death, given and taken by her will alone.

Sixteen days ago, my grandmother died. Thankfully, I got to see her alive one last time-I got a call from my Moms four days before, and was able to jump onto a flight to see her the next day. I tell ya what, it, fuck, is probably one of the hardest things to see someone with your own cheekbones, nose, ears, slowly losing life with each labored breath, and all you can do is stand and helplessly watch. Then again, that's nothing compared to the actual dying. And you know, she never ever forgot any of my birthdays or Christmases.

Until this year, I had averaged about a year-and-a-half with each employer. Until this year, that is. Somehow, I've managed to go through four in the space of seven months. It's been a lot of change, and I think of it like new turns in the road. Only, I have no clue as to where that road goes. Chances are, and I'd be lying to myself if I didn't say it, that it will invariably end up backtracking and going straight through the same shit that I've already gone through. Repetition, little fulfillment, and just enough scratch to scrape by.

It has been a tough week, I will admit that. Too many past inner demons haunting my soul, too many fucking ego-inflated assholes, too much fucking bullshit in the balloon of life with no needle to pop it. It never ceases to amaze me how deluded people become about who and what they are-some fucking $10-an-hour whores who so condecsendingly look upon the rest of the world with such disdain. Stupid fucking sheep, if they only knew what true pain and what true capability really were. I guess that's why they are what they are-exp

She remains in my dreams, austere yet ambitious, demure yet sensual, pragmatic yet ethereal. There's a darkness in her eyes, and I fall into that darkness, completely understanding yet with no words. A cohesion of ideas and desires and emotions all communicated by the language of movement and existence. I comfort her tears of pain and toil, and she soothes the omnipresent tumult in my soul. Long, solemn walks down leaf-covered trails with the cold air turning her cheeks that rosy red that exemplifies life. Her body touching my own, illuminated by the glow of the embers in the hearth.

I have always been able to withdraw into myself at will. I have always had a talent for it-if talent is the right word. Whenever something came up that I just couldn't handle, I could just pull back all my emotions and energy and stuff them into a thick brick wall deep in my soul. But as I have begun to age, I have become weaker in my ability to maintain that distance. And, weaker in my ability to control it. Now, I drink to make up for that loss, to keep all that bullshit inside-it's no one else's business.

Fuck, I hope you're okay Jeff...pretty slow at both the lumberyard and the grocery store today. Understandable-I guess everybody was just glued to the tube...I think I'm catching a cold. This weekend I go to one of my best friend's baby shower. I feel a little apprehensive about it, being a fella, but I got an invitation, so I'm obliged to go. I'm just a little confused-do I dress all fancy-schmancy, or just roll in dressed in a sweatshirt and shorts? Think I'll put on a nice shirt, some decent pants, and amble in with a bottle of mediocre merlot.

I am trying hard to regain the good cheer my usual demeanor is made up of, but my stupid actions of last week keeps me heeled in this sullen mood. It's tough to break self-destructive behavioral traits, especially when they've been used so much in the past-kind of like walking through tall grass, once you go through it, it's much easier to follow the path you just forged rather than creating a new one. But it's a big field, and I guess it's just within one's capability and determination that gives them the ability to make new trails. I guess...

This should be a good weekend. All the boys are coming up, and when we get together, the good times always roll. It will also be another turning point in my life: I end two jobs, and start a new one on Monday. I am, admittedly, a little scared-change is always scary-but it's the best thing, and now's the time for me to do the best thing. But, first, drunken debauchery, and if we're lucky, maybe some fine women will join us in our activities. I hope so, not just for sexually pragmatic reasons, but for emotional fulfillment, however unlikely.

I thought of my grandfather today. Actually, I think of him quite often-but today the visions were stronger, the curiosity greater. You see, I never really knew him: he had an aneurysm before I was born, and moved to the other side of the country when I was two, so all I really know of him is information passed down from my mother. Like his penchant for hot foods; how he'd sit on the floor as readily as a couch; his love of just being outside. All traits that I have, and that he alone of the family also possessed.

In a moment, I go to that fine baby shower I blabbed about earlier. I'm stoked, but at the same time, I'm annoyed with one of my friends-in fact, probably the closest friend I have. See, this is the last weekend I will have off for quite a while-I start a new job Monday, and they require me on the weekends. Now all of us live in different places, so being in the same place and time are near impossibilities-yet, his excuse for not coming was because he didn't want to drive 100 miles. It just offended me, was all.

This hangover is rough. As I progress in age, I regress in my body's ability to detoxify booze. Therefore, I usually need a full good day to recover from its nasty side-effects. At times like this, I think of cutting the booze forever, never having to deal with its bottoming-out again. But then, I think of all fights and kisses and pains that it brought about-and while the majority of those certainly don't feel good-they at least have that emotional something with which to feel. So, while in the normal course of the day it's nay, sometimes, it's just yes.

My deity is pissed at me. For, once again, I have broken his number one rule, his overriding declaration: Never lose control. He hates it when I lose control, because it breaks down and destroys all that I've accomplished in one swirling tornado of unaccepted emotions and desires. The force and conviction of my words and actions completely lose all potency, because the foundation is destroyed, the moral slab that gives one's soul integrity. So, once again, I will have to bow down and feel the licks of his whip in the form of my guilt and regret and disappointment.

The roommate's pissed at me, and I guess it's because she thinks I haven't cleaned as much as I have. Personally, I think she's just looking for fight, and I've grown too bored to brawl. So, when she shot off some condescending remark, I walked away. Just didn't want to play the stupid, trite games of "I do so much more than you..." It isn't a way to solve things, but to heap self-pity on oneself when one doesn't feel good about oneself. Besides, she doesn't want a war with me-where's the cash for the fucking cable a month overdue?

I sicken myself with my continual repetition of stupid mistakes. The things I swore I'd never do again, that I would kill myself if I repeated again, I continue to do, and sometimes with a greater magnitude as well. Amazingly, now, there's really no reason for it. Financially, I am in good shape (my grandmother left me some cash when she passed away). I have a beautiful house that sits in the middle of a valley in a mountain paradise. Decent job, loving social circle, and a bright future. Yet, the inability to meet and control my emotions head-on remains.

It's hot tonight, and I hate fucking hot weather-it makes me unfocused and irritable. I yearn for autumn, with her cold winds and austerity. Still, I sit here stifled by this suffocating night. That's all I have to say, as invariably I just repeat the same remarks I made two days, months, or years ago. Time rolls on, impervious to one's cries for stillness. My time rolls on, with the faces of loved ones disappearing in a haze of repeated mistakes and empty promises. I meagerly reach out to them, only to pull away when the effort becomes too great.

I feel calm, even a little relaxed right now. Maybe it is the cooler weather, maybe the relief after finding your paychecks' amounts higher than expected, but relaxed regardless the reason. Tomorrow I wake up for work a little early, but I've become spoiled by an eight-hour workday with two days off a week. It gives me a little extra energy, a little extra freedom to enjoy myself on my own terms, and I don't mean jerking-off. Just walking out into the middle of nowhere, to enjoy the cold water and solemn wilderness with no people to stain the picture.

Sometimes the pettiness and apathy of people amazes me. How some people, pissed at standing in line at the grocery store for five minutes, pine and moan and then yell at some hapless manager for thirty-five minutes about how precious their time is. Or how some people, when asked politely to move when standing in the way of something, give a fucking attitude, like it's too much goddamn effort to move two fucking paces. Or those that hold on to things just to have them, instead of being generous and sharing in the spirit of utility. Makes me fucking sick.

Honestly, I don't really want to be like the majority of people. Now I don't mean in the stereotypical, non-conformist sense that I want to listen to different music or wear different clothes, because the conformist and the non-conformist go through the exact same actions, just to minutely different stimuli. But, so many people just seem too comfortable to just be, and while that's certainly satisfactory for them, I just can't see how one would want to remain static, with a situation predictable and unchanged. There's just this restless part of me that refuses to accept that homeostasis and repetition.

It's been a long day, but a good one. Business, half-taken care of-the remainder should be done tomorrow before I go into work, then I'll have my two days off free. With that freedom, and with autumn coming ever nearer, it's time for me to take a full day hike up the creek. It'll be refreshing, honest-Nature's never shy about her brutality and flippancy, unlike pretentious people, so I feel an amount of warmth for the old bitch. Not just that, but there's a kind of eeriness in fall's air, and like a cheap twelve-pack, I just have to drink.

Soft and yielding, yet at the same time austere-a kind of paradoxical equilibrium. It's that fine point between good and evil, that crux of a triangle, that ability to climb up the tallest spire and see both horizons. That middle point, that instant in time and space where two things meld, that is where capability and experience lie. It's the fulcrum supporting two opposites, and without it, two sides of being simply couldn't be. You either do or don't, yes or no, right or wrong, yet there's that inherent property that at some point, they just don't fucking matter anymore.

I saw her for the second time today. I was apprehensive, as our first meeting consisted of drunken fumbling, of how she would react to seeing me again. Miraculously, she warmly called me over on this lazy mountain day, we talked for a bit, then I left, feeling a little awkward. Yet at the same time, certain things said and done in that certain place and time demanded that I do something about it. So, I called her up later, and tomorrow I'll see her for a bite to eat or coffee. We'll see what happens after that, if anything.

Fuck, what a fucking nightmare. I went out with this chick tonight, and fuck, it went goddamn nowhere. Not that it should, but, frankly she's hot, and I know I probably could've taken her to bed...but I didn't. There was just that wall, that what she said just wasn't getting to me, and what I said just didn't permeate her shell. It's that emotional thing I guess, and oddly, it was me that did the walking because of it. Just wouldn't feel right, knocking up against the headboard, staring at nothing. Oh, and I fucking hate my roommate right now.

I often think about taking vacations in different parts of this continent: British Columbia, Vermont, Flagstaff, northern Idaho, places that in general have pine trees and cool weather and good fishing. I have maps and maps of all these different locations, and sometimes I just dream, because while I like where I am, I also know that there is just so much more out there. There are so many incredible sights not yet seen, words not heard, food not tasted, people not met, yet they're all out there, and to ignore that fact is to put oneself into experience-limiting stagnation.

Sometimes I wonder how people can treat each other like shit so easily. Of course, I know they're just following the natural law of step on the guy below you to move ahead, but the fact that they do it with such remorseless panache galls me. Weren't these fuckers brought up with any values or paradigms of proper behavior? Don't these assholes realize that they are absolutely expendable, completely and utterly meaningless in the larger scheme of nature's mind? And then they still waste their time with petty complaints and false ideas of grandeur? Fucking worthless, the lot of you...

Once this Irish rage gets ignited, it sure is hard to put out. I get frustrated with myself, because the only way I can express displeasure with someone's actions is by opening up that rage. I need its energy-otherwise, I'll just watch the situation glide by, taking my integrity and self-respect along with it. So, I sit here, somber yet still smoldering, trying to extinguish that blaze with some alcohol. Thankfully, I'm a happy drunk, so boozing would mellow out my demeanor-then again, cold weather would too, but it's price tag is far higher than the fiver I've shelled out.