d minus vente y ocho y contando

Should this be depressing me? Or liberating me? Today I realized that, when the countdown reaches its denouement, an important person in my personal history will simply cease to exist. Oh, there will be records of their existence, and memories. They will, however, no longer be. Well, not the same person anymore. Sure, that has happened in so many ways already, but it's not real. Yet.

Theoretically the deed has not been done. If you asked a lawyer, he would tell you that it's not too late. If you ask anyone who knows anything, they will tell you it's been too late for, oh, let's say...7 months and 8 days. Or so. And waaayyy to late for a couple of months. Maybe more, who can say, for certain. Some may say just a little over a month, but they are the uninformed. Include me as a onetime member of this group.

So, I look forward to the day. And I dread it. It represents, in typical Gemini fashion, one of the bravest things I've ever done, and perhaps my gravest failure in a lifetime of mistakes.

On the one hand I know that I've done the right thing. Although, from the empirical evidence, this is a very hard point to support. I suppose that's what faith is for, no? I have the faith of my convictions, which is enough for me. It's nice to be supported by loved ones, but if one truly believes one is on the right path, unnecessary. Their backing, even if it was a little late in coming (in some cases), does make the row somewhat easier to hoe. It is still up to each person to actually do the digging.

On the other hand was a golden band...as the song goes (kinda,. Shut up, I'll remember the lyrics however I please. If you don't like it, get your own blog and write whatever you want. Just don't forget to tell me where to find it in the comments, or I'll never know of your almighty superiority). When one says, "I do.", does anyone really mean anything but forever? That's silly, of course some people do. Not me. I waited until I had found the person who I could spend the rest of my life with.

Well, the female person, I passed up the male version due to a lack of differences in DNA makeup. Too much of the matching XY vs. XX just doesn't work for me. Too bad, though, because it would have saved me a hell of a lot of other kinds of pain.

Umm... that's not the point I was going for, was it? Where was I? Oh, right...

So here I was, optimistic that I had found that of which the poets sing. Love everlasting. To somehow mess that all up... It feels like failing in the worst possible way. So bad that I cannot even come up with a suitable analogy. If you know me personally, you know that this is a serious situation, next to hyperbole, analogies are the most important part of my inter-world relating.

Optimistic. That choice of word has put the lie to my whole string of BS. Hasn't it? Perhaps it would be more honest to say that I felt "cornered". You see, I did believe that I'd found exactly what I was looking for. But then I learned that there was only one way to hang on to it. (Yeah, it was not an assumption I made. It was laid out for me pretty clearly.) So I did what made me happy. And seemed to make everyone else happy. That alone should have made it the right thing. If everyone's happy, how can it not be the right thing?

Because only an idiot enters into a lifetime contract without reading the fine print. (Hint: it's a the bottom of the post, and it's so small that you probably won't be ale to read it.)

Well, like most of these seem to, this will dribble to and end. No clear cut conclusions for you. It's sort of like life, in that way. If it is like life...then I've imitated life in my writing. And some have said that art imitates life. Does that somehow make this art? If so, the I claim that I meant for that to be so. If not... well, who wants to be an artist, anyway.

d minus twenty-nine and counting

D-thirty

and counting...

Oh yeah, I can post here, too.

Weevil decided to head out to Portland for the holiday weekend. No doubt he is using his considerable bartender connections to try and woo many unsuspecting Oregon women to the dark side. I've heard stories of this dark side. Apparently there's cake.

I won't hold a grudge that he's off in higher-end locales (yes, compared to Spokane, Portland is down-right ritzy). All I want to know is, am I getting a crappy T-shirt?

The pictures have all been washed in black

I met a black person for the first time when I was two years old. Scratch that. I saw a black person for the first time when I was two years old. No, I don't actually remember the incident, but I can tell it now from my mother's recollection. Sort of like an amateur historian.

So there we we. Getting a burger at the Steer Inn. Maybe two burgers. Probably some tots. A shake? Sure. Back in the day, it was cool to hang out in the parking lot while you ate (and after). Think "American Graffiti" NW style.

So here I stand in the passenger seat of a convertible Fiat. All 20 some inches of me. Looking out out the wonderfully strange place that is full of way more interesting sights and sounds than that cramped old womb. Get it? Cramped. Whatever. It's my post and I'll make whatever lame puns I want. I'll even claim those unintentional.

Standing there gawking. Now, there's a habit I should get over. Over saunters an unsuspecting gentleman who looks like nothing I've ever seen before. He's taller than anyone in my (limited) experience; bald (hey that's like me, huh?); and dark.

Up to the car he walks, leans over to get to my level, and says... Well we'll never know. I don't remember. Remember, I'm two, and I have very little faith in my ability to recall what I ate for yesterday's midday meal. Spicy venison chili? Shit on a shingle pasta? Maybe. And Mom was getting the food. Because we were at a restaurant. Try to keep up.

So he says the things people say to kids and I look at him soberly, reach out my tiny white hand and wipe my fingers across his forehead. Then I look at my fingers to see if I'd gotten some of the color to come off. My mother says she's never been so embarrassed. Of course, she says that about approximately 2/3 of the stories she tells about me.

The guy was cool, though. He laughed at the goofy little kid and made a joke. Thanks, dude. You may have been a brief encounter, but it probably shaped my view of other races more than any event in my life. Right up until basic training. But that, basic training, off subject. And, after reading my posts, I'm sure you know how taboo that is @ Brainweevil.

The last black person I met was not a dude. And I am now wayyyy to suave to try to uncolor someone. Yeah, so I made up another word. at least I know I'm doing it.

My first experience of her was text with no image. I thought her words beautiful. Of course, I met her on the `net, so coherency is enough to get her words several steps up the steps to glory. When I saw a picture, I was shocked. Girls that pretty don't speak in carefully considered sentences.

At least not those who are talking to me. Hey, don't get offended. Prove me wrong. Stop the misanthropy before it becomes misogyny.

Anyway, the more I learned the better she got. Every revelation was like turning the pages of the book of perfect traits. Each new thing I learned brought me closer to the edge of a place I have serious doubts about reaching in the near future. Smart, funny, literate, even tempered, hot, talking to me... Yeah, it's like a dream. Then the alarm went off.

She has a flaw. So does everyone else. So what? Right? Get over it. One flaw does not a dream destroy. Well, this one did. Yeah, I'll bet you guessed it. She's got a... habit. And addiction. There's no future for us. I guess we'll just have to be friends. I could use a few more of those. If her habit will allow it, that is.

I have my doubts about that, too. But I'll keep them to myself. I wouldn't want the optimistic vibe of Brainweevil to be shattered with doubts, now would I?

So now I'm off to Trick Shot's. Where I hear everyone is looking for a hook-up. Perhaps I'll see you there. I'll be the not neanderthal. Probably stick out like a sore thumb.