So this is the 51st week.

Funny how I don't like to talk about certain things anymore, though I seem to think about them more and more. I don't know if it's because I'm afraid that people are sick of listening (though sometimes I get sick of listening to myself) or because I'm afraid of seeming like one of those people always looking for pity or attention.

So 51. Might not seem like a great number. What's 51? First thing I think is trip-17. God help you if you're playing me in cricket and leave your 17's open when I'm working on the bulls. I'll hit it every time. Unless of course it's one of those nights where the bull looks bigger than a DVD. You'll have those nights. Sometimes it shrinks to the size of a pea and you'll think, how the hell am I supposed to hit three of those damn things?

Seventeens have always been my one of my strongest numbers. When I really need to score on you, if I have a choice and 20s are closed, I'll go for the seventeens. But this isn't what I'm supposed to be talking about, is it? Though this week I played like my life depended on each win. I barely spoke, just smoked cigarette after cigarette and threw my darts with an accuracy that has eluded me for the last year.

But who cares about darts, right?

I mean, it isn't as if it's a life altering game or experience. Nobody's going to sit on their death bed thinking, if only I'd taken that 105 out (my best bet for that would be trip 19, single 16, double 16...if you choke on the third dart there's always the double 8 if you have another shot). Yet, the last night of his life we played darts. His were in his back pocket when it was all said and done. They were my old 28-gram Hammerheads. He used to tease me for throwing telephone poles, those fat, heavy darts. Then he threw sleek 24-grams, same brand with a thinner, smoother barrel.

His mother finally gave them to me a few months ago. Someone (coroner?) put them in a small manilla envelope, the kind that open at the narrow top, the kind you'd expect to put a wad of money into. They wrote, "Samuel Adams 11-19-02 CAREFUL! 3 (sharp) darts." One of the flights have since fallen off. They were the white and black Amazon flights, the only ones he'd use. I still won't throw the darts.

Isn't that a great name? Samuel Adams, brewer, patriot. Wish I liked the beer. Tastes like potpourri to me. First time I drank it I was in England, can't remember the name of the town...it'll come to me. Anyway, my cousin Jeff and I were at an awesome bar (pub, I guess), when one of the servers came around with a tray of clear plastic cups. She asked us if we wanted to try a sample of their new import from America, Samuel Adams. She left two at the table and Jeff and I about choked on it. I drank both of ours (who am I to turn away a free drink?) and chased it with my cider. I was thrilled to find cider on tap at every pub we went to. It's tough to find it on tap here. The bar I play darts at, Slyders, still has it. I only drink it when I'm on the path to self-destruction. It makes me crazy. My friends know this. They steer me away from it.

So, I'm drinking cider in this bar in England, thinking Sam Adams is disgusting. When I met Sam, he thought my Woodchuck draft cider was disgusting. He tried to buy me one of the adorable woodchuck shaped beer taps, though. He knew I loved the stuff. Now I have a Samuel Adams coaster on my bulletin board at work.

A lot can happen in 51 weeks, course these last 51 have been a little more eventful for those around me than for myself.

Someone asked me last night why I don't/won't date again, said I was "too young to be disillusioned by relationships."

First, it's not the relationships that are the problem. It's life that I'm disillusioned with. And what the hell does age have to do with it?

And dating? Well, my first question is...why? Why should I? I really don't see the point in, well, just about everything.

So I wear a wedding ring, and things will continue like this, until when? Until I'm dead, too? I don't know, I'm fresh out of answers. No one ever gave me any.