Author's Note: No poetry, just inane rambling. Ingnore it if you want, all I ask is that you leave a comment saying very distinctly what you think of me.

It's been a slow, trying, and often frustrating while. Most of you well know the ups and downs of a long and often impossible mountain pass that is Self Discovery. Still yet, many of us must face it. Still yet, trying to make my exit with all my limbs and life in one peice. Now all I have to do is find out exactly where the pack containing my fragile state of mind ran off to. Little bugger just shouldn't be off on his own.

Light a smoke, take a quick starter swig of your chilly Rum and Coke. Rack what you've got and tap the balls in place for a nice, tight rack. Pay no mind to the people on either side of your table. Just keep your head low, and focused. The wild ride begins.

Nice, hard break. Four into the lower left pocket. You've got a clear but lengthy shot on the one to put it in the upper right, then a tough cut on the two in the middle left pocket.

Take another swig of your rum and coke.

Obstacles. Many times on this road, I've found that I don't even have a clue as to the object I need to get from one place to the next, and what's gonna wind up exploding in my hands. I guess part of the experience is to have something obscure in your sight and take that chance. If I really hadn't, would I go back and regret it later? What if I ran from the shot and it was really something I needed? Sometimes it feels like a pain I've got to have in order to get where I need. A necessary evil, if you will.

One ball, upper right pocket. Sunk, but you parked the cue ball two inches off the bank, five and a half inches left of the pocket. Nice, long drag, and a big sip of that rum and coke.

Then again, most of our biggest set backs aren't external any more than internal (better yet, our use of what could be a perfectly good external something-or-other). I know it's been said time and time again by our elders, and we just never listened. We knew everything. Didn't we? That's how I got to this point. Lost on a long and hard road. Shoulda taken the map. In a more glass half full sorta world, I like to think that I had more of an adventure this way.

It's really not about taking the easy way versus the hard way or anything in between at all, rather defining your own way through the sludge. Shot on the two sinks, but now your three is parked behind the five and the eight on the lower middle, two and a half inches right of center. Fuck.

Finish the rum and coke, order a new one. Light a new smoke. Gonna be a long game.

I guess now that I've made my way here, I see a whole list of the same ol' questions over and over again. Just different perspectives this time around. And no, this doesn't mean I've got more a clue how to answer them... or whether to keep giving a shit. Apathy thanks in part to the nineties and two rum and cokes sets in, so I should really just give up. Deteriorata had it right. Give up. You are a fluke of the universe.

Hunter S Thompson said something to the effect of apathy, but I've forgotten the quote, and have no real will to find my book. Fuck it.

Just. Fuck it. Hit the three by banking off the lower right side bumper. Pray you've got a shot. Finish half the rum and coke in one shot.

Why should I give a shit anyway? What will be, will be..am I right? Well...am I? I'd hate to just think of giving up now. I'm young, and always fancied being the "die with your boots on" type. It's possible that I need a better idea of where to focus that fight. So fuck you. That's right, I said it. Fuck you.

Another drag off the smoke hanging from your lips. Three ball, middle right side. Dead on shot.

Somewhere between semi-drunkenness and entirely too much thought during a game of pool, an epiphany hits me. I've lost touch with the better of many idea's I'd had to this point. Take the high road, Paul. Always take the high road.

Combo shot, off the four ball, eight in the upper left pocket. Good position for another shot on the four.

What more could I possibly gain from making a much bigger deal of the situation than need be? When I stop to examine further the possibility of taking a lower route to a higher destination, I find the only thing waiting is Balrog.

He can be such a fucking party pooper.

Four into the upper left. Long shot for the five, and you have to magically bend around the seven to do it. Show 'em what you've got. Cool and collected, take a nice big swig off that Rum and Coke.

"Fuck it all, I've no regrets. I hit the lights on these dark sets. Medallion noose, I'll hang myself." Sure, the song is terrible, but the message I love is clearly defined in a six words. Fuck it all, I've no regrets. Why regret?

Up the mountain I'll climb. Thorns and rough bark make clear just how unwanted I am here. But I've got a place I've got to be. Fighting my way up.

Take a shot on the six. Easy shot by this point, but my moment of clarity passes. Back to feeling my rum. Light up another cigarette. Sink the nine. Total mistake, but at least you looked cool doing it.

"These woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I've got promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep."

In the end of things, my journey to the top of whatever it is I've been climbing is going to be a hard one. But I'm all about adventure.

Rack 'em up again.