Some Say It Was a Sign

And now for my Andy Rooney entry:

I'm not sure which is worse: Christmas or New Year's. Which one wins the bullet-in-the-head award?

Christmas wants to edge it out because I actually used to like that fucking holiday. Growing up. That Toys 'R Us Time of Year. I can still enjoy it as an adult—when I'm flush. (Which I'm not.)

Aside from the gift-giving routine, I've got no home to go to. Okay, I do, but no home that feels like home. My pop's in the cold north. My sister's out west, with her surrogates (in-laws). I've got my mom's open invitation, but that's not my home. It's her husband's. And there's nothing to do in that house except stare at the ceiling and contemplate the emptiness.

Or I can latch onto friends and their families.

New Year's is another bag of nails...

It's not quite as meaningful. I've just had a few good New Year's Eves. But if you're not in a relationship, it just turns into one of those sad, awkward things—especially if you're at a party. Cheers at the countdown. Try to look away as other people lock lips.

I cannot stress enough how thoroughly I loathe other people's happiness.

These are some dark days. Writers Guild-AMPTP negotiations broke off again on Friday. I've been plugging away at my new script, but there really is little hope of this strike ending before sometime in January at the earliest.

Another week at the salt mines ahead. Apologies for all the emails I haven't returned. I'm busy overcomplicating my life.

UPDATE
Congratulations to those lucky fucking Broadway stagehands, who've finalized their new contract. That feel good for you, fuckers? Gonna have a sweet little Christmas, are you? 19 days on strike, how did you ever manage to keep your spirits up?