Ok it’s really the afternoon by now, but I’m lazy on the weekends.

For many weeks now, Saturday and/or Sunday morning has meant my staying in bed, often writing just like I am now, with the door opening to M. bearing a tray with coffee and a muffin or cookies or whatever we had around or thought to buy the night before. But, M. is gone now. So for me to get coffee or tea and a bite to eat, I have to get the hell up. Might as well take a shower and get dressed in that case.

No breakfast in bed sucks.

On the brighter side, it appears that four days post departure, he still remembers me.

The other bright side of someone leaving right before the holidays, is that there are a ton of distractions and other friends coming home for the holidays. I woke up to a phone call from one of my oldest friends who moved to California a long, long time ago, who’s at his mom’s place right now. The fact that he lives in the Bay Area is one reason that visiting M. and thinking about possibly moving (was that vague and non-commital or what “thinking about possibly”) doesn’t seem as daunting or impossible.

I guess the bright side is that while M.’s move is disruptive, with his getting settled and catching up with his old buddies and my schedule for the holidays, neither of us has time to obsess too much.

(The other plus side, which is slightly wicked of me, is that Tony V.’s Annual Christmas shows are happening on Sunday atthe Comedy Studio and Monday at the Boston Comedy Connection. These shows are great and fun and almost every comic in town will be hanging out at one or the other. But, they are fun in a very comic kind of way — dark, irreverent, fucked up and soaked in booze. If M. were around there’s a chance he would have patience for one show, but it’s unclear whether he would want to leave right after. I don’t think he would be up for both nights and the ensuing bacchanal. Of course, this year I’m not really up for the bacchanal, especially not to the extent I was last year, but I do like to watch others who are.)

Not a bad evening so far. I’m home at 6:30 p.m. after an afternoon of bowling, which beats an afternoon of working.

On the way home, realized I had voicemail from the boyo out in Cali. And, now I see a comment down below. So, I guess in three days I haven’t been forgotten.

Now if only I could finish my Christmas shopping life would be grand. Fucking grand.

By the way, if anyone who reads this and knows who I am wants to go bowling, let me know. The thrill of candlepins far outweighs the awesome spectacle of shitty open mikes.

The last of my office parties (there are shitloads here each year) is about to begin: Bowling at the Milkway Lounge and Lanes in JP.

This one should be alright. The director of our group hates forced merriment in the office, so she tries hard to make this bash casual and fun and encourages everyone to bring SOs, etc. It’s always fun to see how many of the 20-somethings partake in the free booze and how many are too shy.

So the countdown timer on my home page switched from counting down to M.’s departure to counting up from when he left. (It did it on it’s own, might be an integer thing, and if the script was truly accurate, I’m now in negative time. But, I don’t know.)

The beauty is that in my self-indulgent drama I now can count the hours, days, etc. that we have been apart.

Sweet dolor.

(I was going to write the French “douleur,” because I think it has a better nuance to my indulgence. But, between not wanting to be pretentious and smug and the U.S. requirement to hate the French, well…)

Big shout out to a certain comic reverend for the advice on Pedialyte, which I’m sipping now. Not ever having had children myself, I’ve always relied on Gatorade or mineral water.

I’m actually not that hungover, it’s just that I really do try to keep on the straight and narrow relatively speaking. One or two light beers and I usually stop these days. Not only does that keep my beer gut down, but I realize that I’m more interesting when I’m coherent. I also get the added bonus of almost always knowing exactly where my underpants are.

I can’t believe I dragged co-workers to the Emerald Isle. Not that there’s anything wrong with a cold and drafty bar on Dot Ave., but I do try to feign a certain something that doesn’t suggest that kind of bar when I’m at work. Of course, anyone who knows me in the real world recognizes “feign” as the key word in that sentence, since in truth I gots very little klass.

So, yesterday morning started at the airport and ended with me alternately crying and singing out loud “Midnight Train to Georgia,” while making my way down Mass Ave.

Today feels so much more sane, even if I did have to run the annual admin staff yankee swap.

Sleeping alone after three months or so of not sleeping alone will seem weird, I’m sure. Funny that both M. and I were pretty confirmedly into our respective bachelor pads initially and then we weren’t without that much discussion. It seems now like it just sort of happened. And, now, it’s just sort of stopped (for awhile).

Since I’m retarded enough to sound so adolescent in public, and in case there is anyone keeping score, here are the current M./Dee-Rob stats.

Anyway, my mood is lighter today, and I have hope of a future reunion. The goal now is to wake up tomorrow clear-headed, clear-eyed, also know as not hungover.

Apart from the headache, I feel better today. Wallowing is good.

Jesus, I am wallowing. I can feel myself wallowing. But, in the end, it fucking hurts.

From about 4 p.m. on I’ve dabbled in alcohol. Not enough to kill me, but enough to make me think or not.

Office party, and friends there, onto an open mike, and friends there. So, maybe I have friends. Maybe I also have a gift for speaking as though I hadn’t been drunk. I will know tomorrow when I listen to my set on my iPod.

What hurts I guess is the phone call — “I miss you already.” I didn’t say it then, but me too. I listened to your mp3s in my car on the way home. I wandered the streets a little (probably unwise, but not dangerous, just fatalistic). Why are you so sensitive, sensitive enough to give me women singing things like “Midnight Train to Georgia?” By Mass Ave. I was racked with sobs. I could feel it like real pain; Throbbing, sore, aching and I choked on my own tears. Leaving on that Fucking Midnight Fucking Train to Fucking Georgia. Now there’s that Vonda Shepherd chick or however you spell it from Ally McBeal. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK.

I understand crying because a guy hurt me. I don’t understand crying because a guy is good.

On a lighter note, thanks to the folks willing to drink with me. Ed, Josh, Meryl while she lasted, George who wanted to see me perform but had to go, jesse and especially Julie, who may actually read this. Julie, man, you are funnier than you know and it was good to see you back behind the mike. Sorry you got drunker than me, when I’m the one who needed to feel sorry for myself.

I guess the plus side is now I fucking know. I do miss the Chinaman and I am not looking forward to sleeping alone.

So, a little bit of a whimper more than a bang in the end. I just got back from driving M. to the airport. We checked him in and hung and had coffee together. Then we waited in the long security check line to the gates. As he got to the front, of course, he was pulled aside for the boots off, spread eagle metal detecting, backpack open close inspection. Was it racial profiling, or what my frequent flying brother told me–since they have to fully search somebody, if there aren’t any terrorists around they pick the person who looks like he won’t be a dick about it.

The consequence for us was a very rushed hug and kiss while the impatient security guard stared us down.

Au revoir.

By myself in the car home, I had that weird, face-full headache feeling right before you start to cry. I didn’t cry though. I might now. I’m not sure why. As he told me again and again, he’ll be back.

I need a nap.

Just to get it out there on the web, because that’s almost like praying, right?

BON VOYAGE, THE AMAZING M.

GOOD LUCK, GODSPEED (or substitute whatever works in place of the implied divinity), PEACE AND maybe even THE L’ WORD.