The End Times really should be upon us. An African American man has the keys to the Massachusetts Governor’s office. A chick, a fucking liberal, probably some kind of lesbian-loving, San Fucking Francisco chick no less, is in charge of the House of Representatives.

It’s goddamn historic. It’s also just the kind of thang to make the evangelists and conservatives look up to see if the sky ain’t falling.

For all I know, the good’uns have been sucked up in the Rapture, and I’m writing this from the heathenous bowels of a world of Left Behind losers.

But, Harriet Meiers resigned while “our team” ascended. Maybe the world has already ended, but I see a slight puppy-loving rainbow of hope.

M.’s toe is not broken, just badly bruised.

But, fucking “OW.” It still looks mighty painful.

Behold what the evil of petty burglary has wrought.

Today is the day I declare the official day of holiday and rest.

I don’t have to do fucking anything. I don’t have to meet anyone, I don’t have to get or receive presents (what kind of bitch complains about the work involved in receiving gifts?), no planes, no rental cars, no malls, no nothing. Nothing.

I can just sit here in San Jose, where I have returned, and do fuck all.

I’m so basking in the joy of nothing, that I ain’t even going to write up all of my waxing and waning emotions and holiday falderol musings about X-Mas in New England. That, is going to wait.

Culturally, you gotta figure holidays and shit were invented to make you take a look at where your life might be. Mine might be fucked, who knows.

I really can’t complain. But, shit, I keep a weblog so complain I must.

My major holiday giggle is kind of two-fold. One is, I hang out with M., no fucking surprise, because I like hanging out with him. He’s interesting, he’s kind of the antidote to misery, he’s funny, and there’s a whole lot of shit I take for granted that he just doesn’t. Rock on, right, you gotta figure I got a bit of a lottery hit with that dude.

But, then you see him through other eyes. I’m thinking there’s one person in the fam who’s basically on a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. Any mention of his differentlly complected country of origin kind of prompts an “oh, that’s awful.”

Um, what? We all know he’s Asian, and he’s cool with that. In fact, um, it’s natural. And, by sheer volume his cultural brothers could kick our asses. So, yeah, it’s not racist to bring it up. (OK, some of the shit I say is racist, but not all of it.)

i love, though, that he likes lights. Christmas lights. (He’s not like a retard or autistic, drawn to any light.)

But, it’s awesomely ironic and great to figure that he hasn’t much use for a Buddhist-y//Tao-ist/ancestor-y shrine, and I’m gape mouthed at the 6-foot joss stick and infinite supply of oranges. While he has this, and he’s cool with it:

Christmas is watching your nephew’s bootleg copy of “Borat” and returning the phone call from Asia wishing the best of the day.

As a side note, some people just suck at telling stories.

All week long there’s been a constant flow of “happy holidays,” “seasons greetings” and “happy new year.” Not a lot of “Merrys” in the realm of multi-culti, saving the world shit.

But, weird to me in the PC world of greetings was the twist on a pile of the emails. They all ended something like have a “Happy and Safe Holiday.”

Um, what the fuck? Safety is nice and all, but it ain’t a real joyful sentiment. You know, like is it safe like don’t get knocked up? That kind of puts a damper on the romance. Or, is it more like don’t get smeared on the pavement after sucking down some wassail?

Happy and safe. And, don’t do drugs.

I pretty much dig the whole X-Mas card deal and the reacquainting, reconnecting, revisiting, blah, happy joy shit. I mean I know I hate people and all, because really, what’s not to hate? But, on the cold, dark and short nights, I get a little bit fuzzy, a little bit warm. The hating softens to pastel gels and wavy flashbacks and flattering light. Sunshine and puppy flavored rainbows.

Getting some good feedback on this year’s card. Throughout having this website, I’ve realized you never fucking know who might stumble out of the past. At least one old boyfriend, a couple of roommates, old friends, recent friends, real-live relations and, as it turns out, elementary school kids. Rock on the shrinking world of the inter web tubes.

I’m kind of happy, maybe proud, maybe delusional, but mostly there’s no one who’s stumbled into the scope of my consciousness who I think sucks beyond redemption. You know, a little life rule, don’t hang with the unredeemable. Unless you’re like a hitman or something cool like that, and then once you’re done hanging, bang fucking bang, bad guy is gone.

Still and all, there is one putrid worm, cue satanic imagery, wriggling up through the underworld who I never, fucking ever, not even through a lead screen and 10-foot thick concrete, suitable to block radioactive toxins, do I ever want to have contact with again. That collossal douche, perhaps even the Collossus among all douchebags in the world, just sent one of my bestest buddies a “Hey remember me, happy holidays” email.

Fucking hell.

Two thoughts occur — It could just be my own conceit that somehow the douche king is using her to somehow channel some attention from my direction. Afterall, she’s cool on her own and is one of those folks in the world who acts the social lynchpin. The thickest address book, the most current emails.

The second thing is in a completely sick way, I owe Douchey McDouche, the walking Vagisil, a debt of gratitude. He is that rock bottom, absolute low point in my life that Bill W. and the AA crew use to signal wanting to change. In my own life’s reinvention, the 12-step recovery of dating bad men and making bad relationship choices, he was the turning point. The clarion call. Redemption.

Our last communication was essentially being so drunk you vomit blood on your grandmother after letting a gang of busboys bang you in the bathroom of your sister’s wedding reception. Finally, you know what every one else has already said, enough is fucking enough, something has to change.

It was just a month shy of five years ago. I’d be due a chip and a cake, I think, in short time, for taking stock and changing my life’s course. I’ve stuck to the program and haven’t fallen off the shitty, asshole, low-self-esteem-inducing boys wagon.

I guess evil exists, and emails our friends, to remind us of the light and joy and goodness.

I’m taking tomorrow off with the plan to get the shopping all wrapped the fuck up. I will likely fail.

In other news, I’ve been rocking the sound of loneliness with the beau on a business trip. It’s freakish how you just kind of get accustomed to the breathing next to you and notice when it ain’t there. On the other hand, I’ve trashed the apartment with craft projects unabashedly. Totally loving the freedom to litter.

Tonight’s big craft news was completing my completely retardly awesome Christmas card with the worst pun ever, printing it and writing up the old seasonal greetings. I tasted vomit in my mouth from the treacly reality that I have officially become the kind of gal who signs her name and her mate’s together like it’s one entity. Eww. But, he is a featured player in the featured artwork, and I am quite fond of the boy.

I am digging the card a lot. It’s very stupid and yet I am disproportionately proud of my own cleverness. It’s a sad level of conceit.

With the day off tomorrow, I’m planning a bit of weblogging recording of what is some core awesomeness of my Cali life. But, again, sugar sweet and bile enducing happiness. Blah.