Fuck you, Shingles, Fuck you, Bing.

Fuck you, Shingles bastards. You spend -- what? -- ten million or so pushing these goddamn commercials on us. Yes, I had fucking chickenpox. So now that means I have to let you scare me and give you money? Fuck you.

Oh yeah, I don't know if this is a statement of memory or not, but I don't remember a lonelier holiday season. I have the emotional stability of a dingy in a monsoon.

My dad was Bing Crosby. The rest of the world saw him one way. To me he was a monster. But I think I was wrong about that, too. He was just another challenge I failed to overcome.

I have a brand-fresh, brand-new love and respect for anyone who has gone -- or is going through -- separation and divorce from their spouses and life-partners. Thank god for friends.

I can't believe Winter just started.

Namaste