That dog, again.

I'm walking to Kroger with headphones on, oblivious, and a brown wind goes tearing by and brushes my leg. This startles the craptaculations out of me at first, for almost exactly one second, and then I see this brown, long legged dog gallivanting clumsily ahead of me. I bust out laughing, but I can't hear myself because of the headphones.

This dog follows me almost the whole way, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind, sometimes taking a side trail, but always coming back to just ahead of me. It's got a collar and tags, but my phone ran out of minutes yesterday. No, this here phone is just for Wi-Fi.

After about ten minutes of that dog, and about fifty yards ahead, I see this guy and this girl sitting in their car with the doors open. That dog tears off at warp speed, into that car, and ALL over those two kids and inside that car like a berserk thing. It's like that cartoon where everything becomes a chaotic blur of motion, with a foot or a paw or a leg or a hand or a head sticking out briefly and getting sucked back in again.

Just as I pass by the car, all three of 'em pop out at the same time, each one from a different door. I remove my headphones.

"Is that your dog?" Says I.

"NO!" Says they.

The truth about me.

The truth about me.

I'm 45 years old and can't quite believe it. I still feel like a kid, but a kid lost in time and separated from everyone, permanently and naturally. I've always been out of synch. If I could just trip over a cosmic string, I might could get jolted into the place where I should belong.

More truth about me.

When I hear music, I get emotional. That's normal, so everything's ok so far, but I feel ashamed when music makes me cry. I feel dirty and worthless. I feel like I need to cover myself up in every scrap of clothing I have, and get under the covers with the lights off, and hide from my emotional reaction.

More truth about me.

I am an addict. I'm not a heroin junkie, or an alcoholic, or a crackhead, or a psychonaut, or a tweaker. I'm addicted to anything that will give me some relief from the constant pain of just being, and whatever that chemical is, that's what I'm addicted to. I'm addicted to anything artificial that offers an escape from the sharp, abrasive edges and surfaces of the unsympathetic passage of time. Melodramatic, but true.

More truth about me.

I'd give my kidney to a stranger if they needed it. I'm one of the good guys. Maybe I'm kidding myself as the shadow of my purpose is cast against the stark, white and pure surface of the Truth... but in my mind, I believe that I am, at least a little, and I don't think that I'm insane.

Some more.

I'm a selfish bastard, and an angry, unforgiving asshole. I know this is true about myself, and the knowledge of it hurts, like knives cutting me all over. It don't hurt enough for me to make any kind of real effort to do anything about it though, because enduring it is easier than trying to get away from it or change it, because I'm lazy.

I used to get pleasure out of things like drawing, playing video games, playing guitar, washing dishes, taking care if myself, hell... drugs took all of that away from me. I don't know if it's permanent, but it seems that way. I still get pleasure out of reading though... man, I dunno what I'll do if that ever goes away.

More.

I'm afraid of everything. Everything. I always have been, and it's always been this way. There weren't no distressing, traumatic event that made it this way. Not one that I can remember, anyway.

I'm afraid, really afraid about what happens to the music in my head when I die.

I think about suicide all the time, but I'm too chickenshit to ever do it.

I put myself to sleep with violent thoughts. Like a lullaby.

I want to live, but I'm being killed by the beauty of the world. I realized that a couple of years ago. Isn't that weird? It's a conundrum.

I'm just a tad bit insane, and I'm not even trying to be funny. I know I said that I wasn't a few lines up, but when you're insane, it's easy to forget that. You know what I mean?

I hate myself. Hate hate hate myself. Why? I don't know why, really. I don't deserve to hate myself.

I've killed three people. There ain't no evidence for it, and nobody outside of myself would ever believe it or think that my reasons were legitimate, but I can't escape from it. My one, single life isn't worth three people. So, there it is.

I think I'm good looking, and that's the sole, precarious basis for my own self worth, so I decorate myself in ways that are off putting and repugnant.

I really, really really REALLY want to believe in God.

From what I understand, peace isn't something you ever actually attain... it's just something that you experience now and then. In short BURSTS.

I carry a grudge for a LONG TIME. Sorry... but only for mortal wounds and insults, k?

I'm gonna feel embarrassed about posting this after I've slept, and I know this now, but I'm still compelled to do it because I'm pathologically shy with a ginormous ego. Dang, that's gonna hurt.

I'm a sucker for pain, as long as I'm the one inflicting it on myself.

Even after all of that though... I really am one of the good guys, and I'm carrying the fire. I promise.

Oh... and I hope all of this is entertaining. Really, I do.

I hope that's enough.