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.

At the end of the year, y’all supposed to look back and thing deep thoughts and shit. There was stuff good and bad, but on balance good about the year. I really miss the unemployment checks I started the year cashing.

On the ranty, bullshit at the world front, I still got GWB for a bit to keep me warm. Unfortunately, 2005 didn’t bring the early crash and burn for which I yearn. But, as this year ends, I tell myself he can still fuck up his second term.

My mantra, think Nixon in ’72, gone by ’74.

On the personal front, both Cingular and UPS reminded me how suckass, shitty bad customer service can be. Thanks, boys and girls, I fucking hate you and resolve in the new year to limit any involvement with either of your fine corporations.

On the even, personaler front, I also resolve to limit time in 2006 with a buddy of M. Maybe he’s semi-retarded, autistic, suffering from Asberger’s or simply socially inept. But, Jesus Fucking H. Christ, I’d rather be punched in the face repeatedly than ever get sucked into another uninformed, narrow, inexperienced, cheap, miserly, myopic, painful discussion with this man-boy. I just can’t get past the desire to swallow a bullet at maximum velocity every time this maroon opens his mouth.

Sorry, dude, life is too fucking short and I’d like to suck a bit o’ joy out of what’s left.

A couple paragraphs or few on my gripes, yeah that’s about right to end the year. For the high points, I’ll spare a couple of phrases and sentences. There’s M., of course, and the big move West. There’s my j.o.b., where it looks like my bad mojo has been lain far behind me in worker bee land. And, there is the sweet sounds of 120 channels beamed from out-of-space to my own radio. My sweet Santa bought me the one gadget on the cutting edge of tech I hadn’t yet acquired.

So, yeah, old one out, new one in. Bring it on.

So the big day is here. I’m pretty sure this Christmas is the only one I have ever spent not in the ‘burbs of Boston.

It’s a balmy 60 degrees here in San Jose right now, though, so I ain’t complaining.

Also for the first time I hosted a Christmas Eve feast. Even at the height of helping Pat with the cooking and cleaning, the Eve I was either not doing anything on Dec. 24 or being a guest in the domain of Oldest Brother’s family blending in his wife’s traditions. I thought of their primerib and crab dip last night.

The quick capsule of our soiree was piles of food, mostly made lovingly by my little hands, a yankee swap with 19 numbers handed out that ultimately became cutthroat and my perception that hippies raise shitty kids. Seriously, one shortfall of the laidback California lifestyle of anything goes appears to be snot-nosed spawn with no sense of etiquette or social interaction with grace.

Doubtless in the olden days, had one of us brave spawn of Pat deigned to in-your-face gripe, bitch, whine and barter our yankee swap booty, beseeching every single party guest with a superior gift, he or she would have gone home devoid of any gift at all. And, I suspect I would do the same.

So, yeah, to summarize: Me, M., suburbs, food, friends, birth control on two legs and swapping.

I just had a homemade snickerdoodle. I’m waiting for my pot of tea to steep. And, I just read how soon a friend’s head or heart is going to explode in some messy excess pressure moment via his weblog.

Soon as I have some tea, I”ll be stringing some more lights around the place and the tree, whilst letting some bread dough rise. Life is grand.

No snow, no slush and, thanks to the generousity of a major philanthropic organization, no work from about 2:30 p.m. PST yesterday until Tuesday.

HO HO HO.

I moved across the country and just got a personalized Christmas card from the local PBS affiliate that I could walk to from my old condo.

HO HO HO.