CarlHoliday

Damn, years ago, another old question, but yeah, the good ol' US quit reusing, i.e., disinfecting, because it doesn't kill all the viruses, especially that evil little devil HIV. Viruses are tenacious and the only way to ensure no HIV viruses is to use a new, sterile needle everytime. Unfortunately, that is very expensive and very expensive health care is something not too popular everywhere in the world. But, disinfection is still alive in the US. Injection drug users do it all the time, but that's also a matter of economics. If you're spending all your money on shit, you don't have money to spend on the injection. So you can clean it. Bleach cleans every thing, almost. Doesn't do to well against all the viruses, though. It simply boils down to a matter of risk and if you're doing shit, are you worried about a little risk?

Man, was I drunk last night, or what? I haven't felt that bad in years. And, this morning! I quit over-indulging for what happened this morning. I was sick. My stomach had a hole in it that still hasn't completely healed. Anyway, that didn't stop me from getting Chapter 5 of The Pastel Cowboy posted on eFiction. I was hesitant in posting this chapter because it delves into a rather despicable area, but when I originally wrote this for Nifty I needed to get rid of a couple characters and what better than to get them involved in something despicable. And, I've launched Tim and the Corsair on eFiction. This is a fun story with lots and lots of sex. Semen is all over the place. But it also has a wonderful character, Geoff Johnson, loser. I've come across a lot of Geoff's in my time here on Earth, all of them weren't as bad as my Geoff, but he is the compliation of many of them. Basically, Geoff has the self-esteem of a doormat. Walk on him, he'll love you. His best friend practically raped him and still Geoff likes the kid. What I am thinking of is changing the ending from what it was on Nifty. I wish I could tell you what I have in mind, but that would spoil everything and we don't want that, do we? Finally, I want to thank Bondwriter and Sharon for volunteering to do the editing on this story. It's always good to have a couple extra eyes looking at your stuff. It's amazing what slips through because your mind simply fills in the missing bits as if they are actually there. Well, I've got to get to bed. Busy day tomorrow, no wait, it's already today. You know, when you work from 17:30 to 04:00 days sort of go all soft and wiggly. You start one day and end the next. You get home at breakfast time to have dinner, but I have breakfast. The only thing I've changed is my pills. My morning pills are taken before I go to work, followed at appropriate intervals by the midday pill and evening pills. Got to keep my sanity up.

Okay, so we

Well, I made it through the first four days of work and everyone is happy I'm there and picking up on the complexities of the job. It certainly isn't an easy job, not complicated, just lots of responsibilty. I guess the biggest boo-boo is putting the wrong trailers in a set and the driver not checking his load. Don't even want to go there. So, I went in this afternoon to tell the boss I wanted to keep doing what I'm doing. He wasn't there, but the day dispatcher said she'd heard I was doing great. I told her what I wanted and she said she'd email the boss and let him know I want to stay on the hostler schedule. She said it was almost certain that would happen. So, I'm off the road, maybe for good. I am not disappointed. I am, though, getting depressed. I'm sliding down. I'll keep on keeping on because that's just me, but the overwhelming pressure will gradually squish me down in an unfeeling hole. When I feel that it can't get any worse, it will because I'll bounce off the bottom and head back up to the next peak. Up. Down. Up. Down. Over and over. Over and over. I'm working on Chapter 20 of The Pastel Cowboy. We've jumped six months in the future. Zach is on his way to his final test. It is assured he will fail, the only question is whether he will die in the process. He's never died before, but there's always a first time for everything, right? He's headed for a BDSM chamber of horrors and the Master wants his life. The Master has killed before. He gets off on his victims screaming for their lives while their life essence oozes from the many wounds he's inflicted on their young bodies. But, I can't write that. I can't get too detailed. Most of what happens has to occur off camera. So, what happens? Haven't decided. It'll probably occur between chapters. Zach will go to slaughter at the end of Chapter 20 with the innocence of a lamb. He'll probably not know the danger he's in. He'll . . . . Haven't decided. Then in Chapter 21, well, what happens? Either he's dead and the POV switches to someone else. Or, he comes out of hell, how? With the realization he's still a fool? Haven't decided. Well, I've got two more nights and part of a day before I go back to work, so I should find out soon, right?

I drive a Goat. Well, that's what they call it. Doesn't look like a goat. Doesn't smell like a goat. Doesn't sound like a goat. It drives like a truck with attitude. The one I have to drive is the local piece of shit, but it's still a Goat. Found out I still can't back in a straight line, even with a Goat to help. My Goat pulled a bunch of trailers last night and, then, there wasn't much of anything to do. My trainer, who also drives a Goat, said that about one in five don't make it driving Goats. Certainly made me feel welcome. Anyway, all our Goats are white with black tails and they're kind of cute for goats, but they don't smile. But, I did have fun, so maybe it'll be okay once I figure out what's going on. And, the good thing is my Goat doesn't bite. It pinched me a couple times, but I think I got that figured out. After all, it's a Goat.

I'm practicing staying up late because tomorrow night I really start my new job on the night shift 5 PM to 3:30 AM. Ten hours plus a half hour for lunch. Luckily, I'll only have to do this four days a week. That raises a problem, though. Do I return to "normal" during the three off days, or do I continue my nighttime schedule? I'm opting to become a night person. A lover of lunar light, ever searching for those airy beings who disappear in daylight. For the foreseeable future, I'll be a hostler at a distribution center of a major grocer in Western Washington. The company I work for has the contract for deliveries and I'll be moving trailers in and out of docks and setting up sets of double trailers, all in the dark. I posted Chapter 3 of Out the Door, that wonderful tale of two best friends whose friendship continues throughout their lives. In this chapter, they take a very important step in ratcheting up the meaning of their relationship. I also finished Chapter 19 of The Pastel Cowboy and reached an important milestone in the story. I think there shouldn't be more than 3 chapters to go, maybe less. Surprisingly, the depression isn't so bad, but I'm continuing to slide downhill.

Nothing like a good dose of alcohol to deaden the gloomies, but that isn't a solution, been there, done that. I finished orientation a day early. I was the only person in orientation and, since I'm going to be working out of the Puyallup Yard, I didn't need to know a lot of the stuff. So, I'm home and I'm wasted, again. Too much Tequila, again. Bonita missed me. I'm not certain the wife did too. You can never tell about her. She has so many memories of her childhood, I can't tell if she really cares if I'm here or not. I go to work tomorrow morning at 9:00. It sounds like fun, but I'm so wasted right now I don't care. Got to go to bed.

Ah, yes, pesky: adjective: TROUBLESOME, VEXATIOUS. vs. Ordinary, run of the mill, character who's death is simply a life lesson for the hero. Or, pesky character has had enough of bad narrative and dialogue and drives to the highest bridge in the city. Stops in traffic and amid cacophony of car horns runs to the sidewalk and the railing, the railing to freedom. Except, there's someone with a gun who can't decide whether to jump or to put a bullet in her head. The running one inadvertently bumps into the other. The decision is made. Three bullets are quickly pumped into the runners skull. Blood, flesh, brain matter, and bits of shattered bone fly over the railing and fall down toward a busy street market below. Yeah, I like pesky. It's much more, what? colorful? Nice list, though, pretty much covers everything. Thanks, Carl

I've been slowly sliding downhill. There's a lot of stress in my life right now, my mind responds by getting depressed. It didn't work this way before, but it does now. Such is life. The creative juices aren't flowing as freely, which is to be expected. I'm on a downhill slide. Such is life. Tonight, I go to Portland for orientation tomorrow. The wife gives me a sad look. I'm going away from her. She'll be alone. She's very much like a little kid. All of her stories, remembrances of happy times are from her childhood. She seems not to have any good memories of the 33 years we've spent together. Somehow that doesn't sound right. Such is life. Things are afoot, but I can't say anything. Such is life. I am, at this moment, as close to the edge as I've ever been without taking those few more steps to where I can look down into oblivion. Such is life. I was watching one of those PBS travel shows last night and the guy was in The Netherlands. He went to the Van Gogh Museum. I'd forgotten Van Gogh killed himself. Such is life. When I get back from orientation and find out what my work schedule is going to be, I have to get with my psychologist or whoever is available in the office and set up an appointment. I don't like being like this. Such is life. Of course, at my age, with body functions increasingly focused on the end game, thinking about dying is probably just as good as dying. I've read stories about people who just might have done that very thing. You can, after all, talk yourself into a lot of things. But, I don't want to. I have lots of stories left to write. Such is life. Oh, by the by, if you can't wait until the chapters are posted here, go to The Story Cove for the latest on The Pastel Cowboy. All chapters up to 18 are ready for your reading pleasure. I'm working on Chapter 19, but it's going slow as someone dies in this chapter. It's inevitable. Has to happen. Chiseled in granite. "Thou shalt die so that the boy may live." Only, I haven't decided if the boy is going to live. In Chapter 20, Zach will meet the man who just may be the death of him, but not necessarily a physical death. I might spare him, but leave him as a blathering idiot in some mental institution. Or, being young and having sidestepped death before, he might come out of it with only a few scars. But, if I kill him, how can I have a happy ending. I have to have a happy ending. Poignant is nice, but happy is better. Of course, poignantly happy is better still, but those endings are rare. Well, the day is upon us and things have to be done so I can go away for a few days. You know what would be nice right now? A dick. It be nice, too, if the person on the other end of said dick was a good guy who understands some people just need a dick now and then to keep them going. Of course, I'd want said dick to be a familiar dick, don't want no strange dicks in my life. And, it can't be a smoking dick, either. And, it definitely better not be a drippy dick. Don't have to be a free dick, but it is better to have free and friendly than cold and expensive. Damn, wish I had some extra money, disposable money, you might say. Just enough to get a little dick. No, that's not little as in size, 'cuz we're all basically size queens, but little as in momentarily available for whatever you had in mind. Damn, I feel better already. Nothing like a dick to get your day going.

I live in the South Puget Sound region of Washington State, about 40 miles south of Seattle. We're a little drier here than Seattle because we don't have to contend with the dreaded Convergence Zone, which is caused when weather systems coming in from the Pacific Ocean are diverted around the Olympic Mountains and converge over Seattle and its northern suburbs increasing their chance of a good downpour. We're famous for our rain, but it mostly drizzles and we get a thick mist, which totally defeats an umbrella. Surprisingly, my mother's side of the family is mostly from Wales. They all came over in the late Eighteenth and early Nineteenth Centuries, so whatever ties to the old country they might have had were broken many, many decades ago. Wales kind of intrigues me, but if I ended up, for whatever reason, living on that island, I think I'd prefer Scotland. I can't say why, other than I'd probably have a better chance of seeing snow more often. If you grow up with snow capped peaks around, you get to where you expect to see snow on mountains. My father was the son of Swedish immigrants, but my grandfather changed his name at Ellis Island, so the ties to that country were severed early. As far as living somewhere else in the US? Well, I'd like to live in Seattle, but can't afford it. I'd like to live somewhere I didn't have to put up with the gray drearies in winter and the constant damp, but I haven't found that place yet, though a small town in Ohio came awfully close.

I just finished Chapter 18 of The Pastel Cowboy and I reached the point in time where I'm supposed to be. So many things are afoot right now, but I can't tell you anything, so I won't. I've been following through on Lugh's suggestion and putting more of my stuff up on eFiction. I want to put up my Kiel's Story/Tim and the Corsair series, but I want to seriously edit it before doing so. It is a bit much with all the violence, suicides, and constant talk about rape. I requested the assistance of an editor, but have my doubts it will happen. After all, this site is basically for the young ones who are just developing their writing skills. Old farts like myself don't have much to look forward to other than eternal nothingness, so what do I need with an editor. Of course, I do edit my own stuff and have been for years. I even have a red pencil around here somewhere. Did you know editors keep their red pencils extra sharp all the time because you never know when an irate writer is going to show up and you're going to have to defend yourself. So, maybe, I don't need an editor, but I asked anyway. I said "please," too, not that being sincere will help. Monday night I'll be in a motel in Portland, OR, because I'll be attending orientation at my new employer on Tuesday, Wednesday, and half of Thursday. I guess I go to work on Friday or Saturday. That's a big relief. It's too late now, but I remembered from orientation at my previous employer that they hold all paychecks after an employee quits in case there are claims against said employee. I might not see my last check for thirty days to ninety days. Big bummer! Last night I was here looking around, taking a break from writing, and the wife came up behind me and said, "Stories at Gay Authors? Are you writing those gay stories, again?" "Yes, of course," I said. She walked away. Big bummer. It would be nice if she could accept the fact I am gay. It would be nice if she could accept that I am sorry I married her and am putting her through this anguish. If would be nice if I could have a boy friend who would accept the fact that I am married and can't leave her. It would be nice if wishes were kisses, but they aren't. She says she loves me, but I don't think she knows that love is a two-way street. It's give and take, not take and take. I love her and that will not change, but it will never be the same between us ever again. I walked out the door into the sunshine and can't find my way back. The closet is destroyed. I'm still disguised with the wedding band, but if asked, I cannot deny being gay. Well, I've taken up too much of your time, again. Be safe, be happy, have fun, and please, if you do anything in your life, send a comment to the authors of the stories you read here and at other sites online. You don't have to say you liked it. We'd appreciate hearing why you don't like it. We can't satisfy all the people all the time. We're lucky if we can satisfy some of the people some of the time. Thank you, Carl

I just finished Chapter 17 of The Pastel Cowboy. I wish I could tell you what happened, but I can't because it would ruin everything, literally. (Was that a pun?) What can I tell you? Well, nothing, actually because what happened was so unexpected. It was another one of those creative moments when everything comes together and out pops a plot twist. And, let me tell you right now, it was one heck of a plot twist. It certainly surprised the heck out of me. See? It's like winning PowerBall or MegaMillions ($148M this Friday, $85.2M cash in Washington state) and not being able to tell your debt-ridden friends and relatives 'cuz they're gonna want all the money. "My knee hurts, can I have ten thousand, you won't miss it, you've got millions." So, I guess I'd better get busy on Chapter 18 because, although I jumped two weeks in time, I didn't get all that close to a significant point in time that's going to be the death of someone. As, I've said before, I know too many times, this has to happen so Zach can meet the man who might be the death of him. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Could I actually kill of the lead? He's a nice kid, but could that save him from the ax? (Which is it ax or axe?) He does come close, though, so close he could die a most horrible death. But, I can't tell you about that, either. Secret. Oh, I went to the doc today. He was very, very happy I'm doing so well. He was concerned about me being tired. Did some blood tests, but the results seem okay, at least from my uneducated view. There weren't any flags on the results. A little close to the bottom of the scale on potassium, but is 3.6 bad when 3.5 is the low point? 3.4 would be bad, but is 3.6 good because it's just on the other side of the fence? Don't know, just tired. Maybe it's the depression. I'm thinking about calling my psychologist and seeing if I can get back in for some counseling. I feel like I'm on the verge of something. Well, I am kind of on the verge. I've quit my job in anticipation of working somewhere else. They haven't called to make the arrangements for me to come down and get introduced to their company. I thought they were going to call, but they haven't. I'm literally f**ked in the head. I feel like walking away. I can almost see myself as some derelict street person spare changing in Seattle, but I think I'd go to Portland, at least until autumn, when it would be time to head south to CA. Who wants to try to stay warm when there's a cold rain falling? Of course, I could opt for the original plan and just commit some petty crime and then attack the arresting officer and get sent to some government housing facility with razor wire instead of shrubs and flowers. I could pretend to be nuttier than the other nuts. It's not hard. I write fiction. Nothing nuttier than fiction. But, that really isn't an option. I've got to finished Pastel Cowboy first. You guys (I'm not implying this isn't being read by someone of the other sex. I'm just not used to referring, generically, to other people as girls, which is just as generic as guys, but without all that masculine angst attached to it. I know, confusing!) will want to know how it all comes out. Who lives, who dies, and who is horribly disfigured for the rest of his/her life. No, that isn't going to happen, but it could. I write fiction. They're just characters in a story. It's pretend. You know, this is getting bizarre, maybe I should call. I bet you girls (there!) are getting f**king tired of me whining about this depression shit, but no one else seems to be around to listen.

Well, we made it. It was a long haul, but with our son helping with the driving, we made it in 16 hours. That's a bit long, but we did stop to see Great Salt Lake, the rocket exhibit at ATK, have lunch in Mountain Home, Idaho, and dinner in Troutdale, Oregon. It feels good to be home. Per request from Lugh I posted Chapter 1 of "The Pastel Cowboy" to eFiction. I don't know where this will lead, but I'm willing to follow at least for awhile. Right now, I'm waiting for a call from my new employer. Waiting. Other than that, I ain't doing to much other than trying to settle in and get back to living at home.

Today, I hit 58 on the annual counter, 6 years further than my father. Today, I quit long haul driving mostly refrigerated loads across America. Today, I finished getting Chapter 1 of The Pastel Cowboy read to put up on eFiction. I haven't put it up before because I thought it was a bit much for GA, but it seems some at GA want it, so I've acquiesed to their demands. I'll have it up as soon as I get home or Wednesday, whichever comes first. Today, I finished the second section of Chapter 17 of The Pastel Cowboy and Chapters 15 and 16 are up on The Story Cove and will be sent to the nifty people shortly. Today, I decided to bring my second unpublishable novel to GA. This is a happy tale about a man, whose wife is dying of cancer, discovers he had a boyfriend in junior and senior high and nearly everyone in his family thought he was gay. The story progresses through the wife's death and the husband's increasing remembrance of a troubled past that was suddenly forgotten for some reason he can remember. As usual for my stories, Red Bridge is chock full of disgusting subjects like, physical and sexual child abuse, straight and gay incest, adultery, needless violence, mental anguish, and, of course, there is love, a love that lasts a life time. And, there is a ample dose of Switzerland, too. Finally, today, I am with the wife, our son, and cute little Bonita, who doesn't travel well and hasn't pottied since last night which is causing no end of anguish on someone's part. I figure she'll go when she feels like it, others want a pee and a poop now, damn it!. We're heading home tomorrow. With my son and I driving, it should take about 14 hours plus potty breaks.

And a very warm thank you all who reminded me this was a special day. And, it was a special day. So, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Oh, man, it

I'm on my last load for this company, headed for the barn, as the saying goes. I'm sitting in the first rest area on I-80 in Iowa thinking I shouldn't be writing this, but should be eating my breakfast and getting down the road. After all it's past 0800 and my 10 hours were up at 0700. I'm writing like I'm crazy, again. Chapter 16 (5,500+ words) was done in one day. Chapter 17 may take three, depending on how I do on the road. I'm definitely not dropping as fast as usual. I'm still a teenie tiny bit giddy. The silliest shit is funny as hell. But, I have things to do. I have to make motel reservations for my son and the wife so they can drive down and pick me up in Salt Lake. I have too much shit to get on the plane. Of course, they'll need pet friendly motels because little Bonita will be traveling with them. I don't, really, want to be doing this, but I have no choice, do I? I made that choice back in '74 when I married her. I "needed" to get married, so I took the first one who said yes. Now, I'm stuck with her and she pretty much dictates how I live my life. I thought she'd grow into this beautiful flower, but she's pretty much the same old girl I married in '74. You made your bed, now lie in it! Thirty-three years this Wednesday. That's a long time to be with someone. When I came out to her a couple years ago she said she couldn't live without me. Sadly, that's true. She has no life. She hasn't tried to have a life of her own. She's practically totally dependent on me. She hasn't worked the required 40 quarters so she'll never get Social Security, she won't be eligible for Medicare, and if, heaven forbid, we did split, she wouldn't have any medical insurance, which she desperately needs (diabetes, among other things). And, of course, I'll be 58 on Monday. It's funny being this old because men on my father's side never live to 60 and I keep getting closer. My dad died at 52. I expect the "big one" any day, but I do try to live as healthy as I can. Getting off the road will go a long way toward that end. Most of all, though, the depression is getting me down. It's wearing on me. It affects everything I do. I'm going to the doctor on Thursday for my depression follow-up, maybe he'll suggest something. I like Wellbutrin, though. It's nice being able to get it up and doing something with it, which those SSRIs don't seem to be able to do. Mostly, though I'm tired of having depression. It's hard being happy when I shouldn't. It's devastating being sad when I don't want to. Sometimes, I just want to walk away. No, not do myself in. No, just walk away and keep walking until I found it, whatever it was. Too bad I'm not Catholic, I could become a monk. I've done enough religion to know it's all in the mind anyway. I think it'd be kind of nice to sit quietly and contemplate for hours on end. Sounds peaceful. Of course, the celibacy would be a pain, but I'm mostly celibate now since I'm definitely not into casual sex and don't have a boyfriend. It's mostly in the mind. Well, got to go. It's going on 0900 and I've got Iowa and half of Nebraska go drive through today. But, I do get a bath tonight. God, it will be great being able to have a bath every night! And, clean clothes every day! Sometimes I smell so bad, I offend myself! Sorry to have vented at the end, but that's kind of what blogs are about anyway. I should try to live according to my own advice. I keep telling people to have fun. I wish I could. No, I've had fun. It's been a good life, so far, I guess. I made baby and he grew into a man. I succumbed to the biological imperative and passed on my genes. I look back at my choices early in life, my denial of being a homosexual, and wonder if I'd be alive today if I tried just a little bit harder to be queer. But, that's being foolish. You can't live on what ifs. No regrets. Damn, ten minutes to nine. I've got to stop writing!

I wish I could figure out how to make money with this. There should be some way to get this thing to be productive. I hit my peak a couple days ago. I'm still pumping out the words on The Pastel Cowboy, finished Chapter 15 and got it out the door. Chapter 16 is muddling right now. I need to make a time shift. I need to be a couple months forward, but I also need to use the gun introduced a few chapters back, get two boys back together, get two other people (note how I don't say who) together so they can have sex, start a major plot event that will culminate with the death of one of the characters, then set up the last bit and try to decide how I'm going to write it. You see, it involves a young, supposedly naive boy, an extreme sadist, a room full of danger, and a big decision; and, then we're at the end. I don't want this story to go on and on. I don't like writing, or reading for that matter, the neverending story. Just because the internet has unlimited memory doesn't mean you have to use it. "Oh, hi, you must be the new character. Are you gay, too? Would you like to be gay? We can go up to my room and have sex, then we can go down to the mall and boy watch. Oh, look, there's a new character. I wonder if he likes to have sex. Maybe he'll have sex with me. I wonder what my boyfriend is doing. Oh, look, there's a new character. Hey! Buddy? Want to have sex with me? Wow, it's neat coming to the water park and I like it when you wear those Speedos. You're nice. Want to have sex? Oh, look over there. Haven't seen him before. Must be a new character. Let's go see if he wants to do a threesome. Oh, darn, he's old, but maybe he can give us some good advice. Then we can go up to my room and lock the door. We'll have lots of fun playing video games. Then we can have sex." They just go on and on. Life goes on, but a story has to come to AND, THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER. THE END. I'm on the down escalator, again. Well, you'd expect that, wouldn't you? Next Tuesday is my last day with the company. I'm in our drop yard south of Columbus, OH, without a trailer or load to take me where I'm going next. There is an empty trailer here, but it has a busted hinge at the top of one of the back doors. It won't completely close. The last thing I want is a valuable load and a leaky door. See, I still care, sort of. I need to be in Salt Lake next Tuesday getting out of this company. There's a certain amount of stress involved in this whole situation and it's affecting my mental stability. And, I've gotten off the up escalator. It was fun. I had a blast. You know I used to drink to have fun, then I realized I could have a lot more fun if I just let my mind go a little bit. I didn't need artificial stimulant to have a blast. Now, I'm paying for runaway cyclical depression moderately ameliorated by a purple pill. The peaks aren't a blast and the valleys aren't hazardous to my health. The limbo song was on the radio yesterday at the Bloomsbury, NJ, T/A. How low can you go? Well, I've been down where there are two doors. One is signed UP. The other is rather shoddy, unpainted, and there ain't no escalator behind it. The handle is cold to the touch, so cold it burns the flesh on your fingers. There's soft, lilting music. A bright light leaks in around the edges. You want to go through. I've held the door open a couple times and look out across the vast emptiness and wondered if my future was out there somewhere. I've closed the door everytime and opened the other to get on the up escalator. For a while, a long time ago, seems like ages now. I used to go to a place far back in my mind, back where you run into godlike things. It's a nice place, but you have to walk down this staircase hewn from native rock and have the courage to walk out into a vast cavern. There's a bench where you can sit and watch the stone turning, the dim light reflecting off its flat surfaces. Sometimes, but not everytime, there is a small boat, really nothing more than a raft slapped together out of a few boards, that you can pole across the crystal lake. It's nice on the island as long as you don't get too close to the stone. You can get lost over there. I remember I liked going there. I liked going to that other place, too, but they don't like me coming there. They can burn a hole right through your soul and then you die a horrible, agonizing death. Some people have been known to jump off very high places when that happens because they know you can't continue with life if you're already dead. "I can fly!" Well, no you can't and you can't land, either. It's usually a head shot. Just like dropping a not too ripe watermelon. No, I don't go there. It was fun, but I'm not suited for the trip. I'm not down, yet. I'm still way up where the going is slow. I can't even seen where the slope steepens, so there is still hope, but I've been this way too many times not to expect to finally succumb and let myself fall away knowing there will be two doors at the bottom. If I could only figure out how to use this to my advantage.

I hate driving in Eastern Time. My log book runs on Mountain Time, so everything is two hours off. I

I'm spending the night in Southeastern Minnesota, which is a lot like Iowa without all those Iowans. Tomorrow its on to Wisconsin for a delivery and a pick up and then on to Upstate New York for delivery on Saturday morning. I hate going to New York because New England is so close. I've heard horror stories about taking a big truck into New England and one of them was from a trucker who lives there. If any of you have read my LiveJournal blog, you know the depression I suffer with is cyclical. (As, I've said befoe, the nice therapist I went for awhile said I

One of the bad things about driving around, through, and across this great big country of ours is there are places, very nice places, where cell service stinks. No bars! Or, even worse, ROAMING! Digital or analog, it doesn

I wrote a long entry for today, but decided at the last minute not to post it. It wasn't interesting, you wouldn't have liked it. I'm in Faucett (yes, with a "U" not a "W"), MO, this morning. I'm supposed to be on the road, but I haven't left, yet. I have drive across Nebraska today. I've been very, very depressed for quite awhile. I'm taking my meds, and they seem to be doing a fanastic job of keeping my mind off of doing something stupid, but I'm still very, very depressed. Which isn't so bad, actually, because when I'm very, very depressed I write a lot. But, I'm very short tempered, too. I was almost involved in a road rage incident the other day. Well, my truck was on the receiving end of a tossed water bottle, but that's as far as it went. The other driver continued on at great speed pissing off a lot of other drivers by tailgating them until they got out of the way. Big trucks don't get out of the way when we're in the NASCAR passing lane. I stopped for a piss and got the stupidity out of my mind. But, I'm still depressed. Very, very depressed, actually. I did finish the third section of Chapter 12 of The Pastel Cowboy. This is where Zach finally gets to see Paul

Forty miles west of Grand Forks? Minnesota? Big state, lots of lakes, first place where immigrants from Scandinavia looked for Uncle Olaf? Minnesota? Where a week in Duluth, on the sunny shores of Lake Superior, is better than a trip to Disneyland? Minnesota? Across the Red River from Grand Forks? East?

I drove across North Dakota yesterday. Started in Miles City, Montana, and ended up in Fergus Falls, Minnesota. I

Fran