Fucked in the head as I am, I am the first to admit I’m fucked in the head. I question everything, I worry, I envision worst case scenarios, tears and regrets. Tra la. That’s my brain.

In quiet moments alone, I like to question what love is and whether it’s attainable and whether I have attained it ever. You know, navel-gazing, trouble-making misery.

Then, my boss holds me late at the office, leaving me to rush home to eat before a show, after I grossly overestimated to M. my ability to get the fuck home in time for dinner. I arrive to the beef stew bubbling on the stove, the heat on (a state of affairs only I prefer), toast for me in the toaster, noodles for him in a bowl, a little wine and a smile.

He patiently watches a show that was good but slightly uneven, partially from a crowd averaging 19 years in age and comics hovering closer to 40, save the 16-year-old boy. At home, he warms up the TV for Letterman, which he doesn’t necessarily watch but I suggested to catch O’Reilly, while I’m in the bath with my evening ablutions.

Not sure what you call this state of affairs, except SWEEEETTTT.

– M. has separated me from my “loved ones” by thousands of miles (plot-line percursor to the beating of a Lifetime)

– M. is taking me to an exotic land, where he was born, and where a fundamentalist religious majority legislates belief (cue Sally Field kidnapping her own daughter, while wearing a variety of headscarves)

– We shall be carting some products to his family, as we travel abroad (I’m sure he will assure me that we are not in fact international mules and his family is not actually a cartel)

– Today marked the first of my lessons (by M.) in a little boxing (I lack cut musculature, but perhaps a debilitating head injury will show my inner strength (or desire to die))

– An employer treated me unjustly, I argued, I hired a lawyer, I perservered and now my life is better (if only I had slept with my attorney or anyone in my office, changed my sex or was a victim of child sexual abuse)

– Sometimes I snack in joyous abandon (one day, who knows, I may purge)

– Before meeting me, M. seldom drank, now we often drink together (sure, it’s just a glass of wine, but it’s a slippery slope ending in screaming fights, broken glass and tears)

– I’ve been leading a secret double life, turning tricks, smoking heroin and killing random drifters (don’t tell M., he thinks I’m writing on this website during those quiet times)

I am lazy. Luxuriously so. My excuse is the rain. Yeah, if it weren’t for the rain, I would swear off the life of a sloth.

I have barely written, I have eaten well, I have slept. And, it looks as though the new year shan’t be so bad.

My honey, M., has started the new year preciptously, with a job offer. One that without much ado will give him more of the dollars, perks and benes to start. Like any of us, I think the best part is the psychological–Yeah, we want you, we pick you, come join us. Enviable and ego-goodness when he wasn’t even trying.

Yay, M.

For my part, it looks like 6 months or so in, I’ll be hanging out at the place that pays me to hang out. Because I am nothing without a solid way to torture myself, I worry about when they might all start hating on me or think they made a mistake. Still and all, these folks are fucking sharp and seem down with my style.

Weirdest of all, and I realize it is rather gross and gauche to compare, were my Christmas (or holiday of your choice) gifts. I have been accustomed to the impersonal or the non-existent from the folks in the higher echelon. In my seven-years’ long last gig, I got presents from my actual boss, as opposed to the nominal and useless tool who supervised as it suited his own ends, exactly three times.

The first time was early on and consisted of one of those McDonald’s special offers of a collectible for approximately $1.79 around the holidays. It was a digital clock with A Bug’s Life art. It was meant to compliment my office Happy Meals toy cache.

The second was reflective, reflective of the boss’ realization that since heading a division gave you political gravitas, it was wise to follow norms and not piss off the underlings. For the folks in her power tree of distant non-influential branches there were Godiva chocolates. For the more directly significant, there were gift cards to a bookstore. There was agony in the appropriateness of these choices in which many conversations with me seemed to be needed. I received both items.

In the last year before the unraveling, I was, despite the aftermath of Pat’s passing and a packed writing and comedy schedule, a rock solid soldier. I weathered shit like none other in the group, the chief included. For my travails, I got the most distant and most personal of gifts — a $100 bill in a cash card. The note opined on how wonderful and rock-solid I am, and how integral I had become. Quite ironic only 7 months later.

This year, it’s all optimistically perhaps, different. I received a few gifts and two were so notably thoughtful to my interests, I’m veritably confused. Confused, because as M. says I act like someone abused just fresh from a shelter.

Worse, yet, I had likened my new boss to old Ebenezer when she asked about my intentions to check emails over the holidays.

Not sure if I can get used to being the least nice among whom I work, but I might be willing to give it a try.