It has been said that one should not node drunk. But being drunk on Good Friday night, after a day of being alone at the office is entirely another thing.
I wrote this on Palm Pilot. I could barely see the keys on the keyboard. I drunk, and I typed, and then I drunk some more and I typed some more. Only after getting it all out of my system could I sleep, and enter the holiness of the Saturday.
The following day I had no hangover and nearly no memory of writing this. It sounds almost as strange to me as it does to you.

Tonight I want to write something that is true, something that just happens to be true. Let it be said at the very beginning, to make the matter clear: I am drunk. It is Good Friday's night, and I am quite drunk, verily, I have drunk a large amount of rum and lemon juice. And this is a different baffo from the one you know, although the language is largely the same, complete with the same typos, this is another person. Or, if you will, the same person but suddenly stripped (I am naked as I am writing this) of some of his trappings, of some of his cutesy mannerisms. I stand, or rather I sit as I type this, naked before an audience that will read and probably wonder "WTF? Silly drunken baffo, typing away at his Palm Vx, while he listens to 10.000 Maniacs with headphones and a really crappy CD player". You may well say it.
This is another dude talking, one that does not fear words. Drunk, I may be drunk, see, I have no difficulty in admitting it, retaining just enough consciousness to type into a keyboard.
I would rather dictate, but who could I dictate to? I am alone, and I would admite none into my confidence but my Everything2 brothers. You understand, you share the database with me. You have indeed tasted the nodegel, it is not a metaphor, it is what we swim in. It is the medium in which Pseudo_Intellectual expresses his Canadian musings, the matter that allows dannye to be the same gruff Southern dannye that we know, the stuff that whizkid considers at the end of his busy day, what -finally- is at least as real as this Mexican night. For isn't reality largely conventional, if you take a long hard look at it? And rum does help. I see things with clarity.
I see my forsaken lovers, I realize that my vocabulary expands, were I sober I probably would not find in my memory the verb "to forsake".

And in this clarity, that will probably fade with the horrible dawn of Easter Saturday, I start playing again the same CD, in the hope that the little bit of truth that I saw before can come back to this person that I am.

I am not greatly satisfied with myself, I will admit freely. I have failed a person, and now I don't have the necessary balls to say that it is indeed over, that there is not much point in seeing each other, that it is a lie told by the weak to the weak.
That we should accept facts no matter how cold they are.

I can, to a certain degree of approximation, imagine your lifes, my dear North American friends of Everything2, the ones whose things I have read, I can see dem bones' struggle for truth. I can see Yurei trying to make sense of the fucking toasters that life has given him. I can see --OutpostMir--, God, do I miss the little fucker in his suburban home, trying to make sense of his being a a teen in this new and disturbing century,. I can see whizkid's basic decency, and I know that it is a great thing to be decent at his age. I can see dannye, teetering on the edge of something strange and Southern and Faulkner, considering a ship of bone and its implication. I can see wuukiee and dmd at Purdue, faced with the strangeness of being together and being young and being in love and wondering if it will work and if it will last. I can see the New York Everythingians, deeahblita's kinks, yossarian's movies, WickerNipple's photographs, and knarphie being sweet to dee, and Jennifer who is indeed a fucking genius and there should be no mincing of words about it, no need to be embarassed, your brain is bigger than mine and there you have it. Enjoy it.
And the military inhabitants of E2, noding from their vaults, from their planet of acronyms and protocols, now and past. And the mysterious ones, that would not talk to me; it does not matter, I love you all the same. I can't see Gritchka - he is excessively mysterious.
Everything, I take y'all to my breast and it feels good to have buddies sprinkled all over the planet, some in Australia, some in China, some in Europe and some in North America.
It feels good to be part of this global conspiracy of maniac writers, that need to put something down in the hope that it will stay.
I take you all to my breast, inadequate as it may be, and I tell you that it is wonderful, although it may hurt like a bitch, it is wonderful that you feel like telling me all this about you, I am honored.
Our daylogs yearn for permanence.
Wil I find a truth in what I write? My voice is feeble. I fight back the tears.
Again, I am not satisfied with myself. The best I have done is weak and looks suspicious to me.
In the thirtieth year nostrae aetatis I still have not written what I wanted to write, I have not taken the pictures I wanted and I have not said what I mean.
There are only approximations, like Newton's method, at least I have the hope I am getting closer.
Bear with me, as I stumble through the night. There is a truth to be told, I want to tell it, and I can't.