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.