I don't mean to be so negative. It's not like there aren't really good things happening in my life right now. But, for some reason, I get on the jag. On the nip. Into the murky darkness of "everything is going to shit," even though the opposite is the case much of the time.

Maybe I just want EVERYTHING to be on the up. I'm just not satisfied with what I have, I've got to want it all to be as good as it can be.

So I apologize to friends and co-workers after one of my rants, because there's only these little things going wrong. And I should be over all of that, right?

There were a few things I swore I wouldn't write about this year, and I've done pretty well (I think at least). Only making occasional references to the bad times of November 2001. No more ex-girlfriend talk (y'know, the lemonade stand), and no more agonizing over the death of my friend. But they keep coming up. I can't get away from them.

I've been trying to get a hold of an old friend (to no avail as of yet, but I have talked to her roommate). And while this goes on, a couple of other old friends got in touch with me. This is where the forbidden subjects come in.

It's still hard to talk about Brian to people. Hard to explain to someone who might not have known him--or hadn't seen him for years. And I try to be diplomatic and nice and try to steer people away from making an example of this. Or maybe some kind of moral. A fairy tale to tell the kids, and scare them from making the same mistake.

At the same time, the country is trying to move on. Everyone in America--and the world--had a traumatic ordeal to go through last fall. I understand the instant patriotism, the "we're all one, let's keep our chins up" thing that went on in the first month or so after the attacks. But now the same thing seems incredibly hollow.

We're still bombing caves. We still don't know where Osama is (as if it makes a difference if he's alive, dead or hiding in an apartment in Chicago). And we're still waving flags like tassels on an old whore.

We're in recession denial, even as the layoffs keep coming. Huge, multi-billion dollar companies are collapsing because their profits weren't real. The large bonuses for executives who really didn't know what they were doing really do seem a bit excessive now. How is one person at a company--who does nothing but make yes or no decisions--worth millions and the thousands who do the real dirty work are worth less than their age in thousands of dollars?

This is the question that will never be answered by the country or by the companies that encourage this type of behavior. The Enrons, the K-Marts and all those dot-coms that thought it was a good idea to give every employee complete autonomy and no deadlines.

And the ex-girlfriend (this section deleted according to Section 2, Paragraph 3 of the breakup agreement--no hugs?).

So it's all hanging around. The ghosts of 2001, a year foretold to be strange and unusual in a strange and unusual movie from the late 60s, are still floating around and whispering in my ear. They don't want me to forget, even though I've done my fair share of trying to hit the delete button in my brain.

And so it all rolls around in my head like the ball on a roulette wheel. Where is it going to hit today? Am I going to be turning onto the on ramp for I-40 when that song comes on, and I'm suddenly crying again about my dead friend? Or will I be sitting at my desk at work and remember the reason I'm not so happy about sitting at my desk at work anymore? And the ex-girlfriend (I'm warning you, you bastard, we've got a signed agreement...)?

But then there are days when I get up and it's warm outside. Springtime warm even though Spring hasn't officially hit, and I feel like everything is great. Peachy even. That's when the selective amnesia kicks in, and I can warm myself like a fat lizard on sandstone. There's a cold beer waiting for me by my side. There are good tunes in the background.

And all the bad shit, stuffed up like a head full of allergies, clears away and disappears into those hidden caves in my mind.

Matt Worley isn't really bitter, just occasionally disgruntled.