It’s just Henry Mancini’s christmas record and I this holiday.  It seems that I relate best to dead famous people and fictional characters.

The second night in a row of four hours or less of sleep, which means my judgment is right on.

I am alone, by default and by choice.  I can’t get anyone to come into my Pick N Save, let alone try a sample.  At some point I determined that this was a personal deficiency, or superiority, which separated me from humanity; made me unapproachable.  I don’t know whose fault it is anymore.

It could be case of cosmic timing – everything must be aligned – or it could be I’m not intended to have a conference room full of yes-men affirming me.

Of course there’s the fact that almost every “conversation” I have makes me feel like a guest lecturer.  It’s just that one-sided.  I can’t imagine how impersonal it must be for the victim.

I am capable of friendships.  I am capable of a relationship.  The latter is an ethical and/or physical impossibility, but I am still capable.  I must remember.

“You’re the most gorgeous creature in this bar,” I told the forty year old woman with the parted waves of platinum hair, checkered sweater and humongous earrings.

“I was just thinking that about you,” she smiled.

Maybe that’s all I’m capable of.  Maybe that’s enough.