It's what I do...

My triumphant return to the gym was heralded last night with streamers, trumpeters, and dancing girls. They all left before I got there, though, when they found out I would only be walking on the treadmill... walking... and for only 20 minutes.

Hey, I have to start slowly, right? Tonight, I'll walk and ride the bike. Slow and steady wins the race, right?

Anyway, I'll be smoking again this weekend. I'll be stopping by Tim's on the way back from visiting my Dad in Arizona and, if Dad talks about Sadam's capture like I think he will ("You see!? You were wrong! He was captured! He was evil! If he wasn't evil, he wouldn't have been captured!"), I'll need to smoke.

For those of you who haven't seen "Angels in America", shame on thou! Steve, the director who always corrals me into these goofy shows, told me he wanted to direct it and cast me as Roy Cohn. Sure. I won't hold my breath.

Christmas is only eight days away and, to be very honest with you, I'd rather it just disappeared. Honestly. The worst part about Christmas isn't the even, either. It's the harbinger of New Year's Eve. It's the calendar's way of saying, "Hey, lookie Ken! You're alone on Christmas and you're going to be alone on New Year's Eve, too." Fucking calendar. I wish Rosa and I hadn't love Christmas as much as we did, always celebrating it so gleefully. Putting up our tree, making love beneath it, unwrapping gifts on Christmas Eve, wearing the bows, being silly... Now that I've finally begun to learn how to turn down the torture dial, dispensing constant torture over her absence, how do I figure out how to stop missing her so much? How many more years before that ends?

I got a call from Dwight last night, who seemed a bit perturbed over my comment in the last entry about hitting him. I should really take that back. I wouldn't hit him. I'd tie him up and put him in a crate full of spiders until he promised he stop talking about how often he's getting laid and how good his love-life is.... but I wouldn't hit him.