It's official. I'm off.

Yes, I'm *away from my desk* from December 19th until the holiest day of them all -- the day after the day after Christmas, December 27th. By then it'll just be a confused, blurry memory soaked with bourbon drinks, silvery sprinkles on cookies and three or four types of cheeses that no one knows the names of but everyone seems to like just fine. So I figured out what I want for Christmas. I want next year. I'm ready for next year. Like, right now.

Yeah, I know..."But ye olde horoscope told you to suck it up and take it like a merry-making consumer." (Oh, Star magazine astrologist, you really do know me. Even though I added the "consumer" bit. Oh, come on, it's implied.)

But you know, if I really feel the strong desire to get bent about Christmas this year then you know what, cosmic rulers at Star magazine? I warmly invite you and your staff assistants to kiss my buche de noel, ok? Sure, it's a delicious and intricate dessert that deserves a hell of a lot more respect than it'll ever get, but you can just roll up your stellar astrological note real tight and shove it up your fa la la.

I just need some french fries. No. Coffee. And patience. For my return and a departure at the same time. If nothing else these days, I do know how I feel and what I think is as constant as the moon. Sure it changes and has its phases and is sometimes covered with clouds, but it's always there, always the same, and always the brightest thing in the darkest sky.

Man, I get tired of the tv and magazines telling me what to do all the time.

Can I get a witness? At least an "amen"? How about five bucks. And I'm turning off the tv.

But. I do have a few more magazines to read. It is Sunday and all. And we partied like one-hit-wonder rockstars last night but luckily, no one took the brown acid. But I feel like Tara Reid's liver. Her poor, screaming liver.

Speaking of that, I need to go shopping today. Have to. Oh come on. You care, you know you do.