Can't complain about Christmas this year, but I'll try anyway. Parents got me an iPod, which, now that I've gotten over the fact that it's an absolute bitch to set up, is cool. I almost wanted it more as a twenty-something's status symbol than as an mp3 player, although as the latter, it'll make my hour and a half commute slightly less interminable. Now I've just gotta make appearances at Starbucks and Barnes & Noble with those white plugs sticking out of my ears so everyone knows how hip I am.

You know, I hate being aware of shit. It would make enjoying things a lot more enjoyable.

Now, next to the iPod, and next to the thoughtless but always appreciated cash, I guess the nicest thing I got for Christmas is a hot chocolate mug from the Fillers. Nothing against the mug, but it is more than a few steps down from the iPod. Mom gave me stupid crap like pencils and Post-It notes and underwear ("Wow, Mom, good to know you spent a whole four seconds thinking about what to get me!"), and the freaking relatives I hate gave me clothes. Here's a confession that I've got: more than half my wardrobe comes straight from Christmas and birthday gifts, thanks to my mom's cousins, who have apparently never heard of a freaking gift certificate. I guess I sort of got back at them, because their Christmas gift from me was an amazingly hideous Santa Claus-shaped spoon holder that, if they have any sense of taste whatsoever, they'll wind up re-gifting for next year's secret Santa at the office.

The holiday itself was bearable, considering that I had to spend two whole days with my parents and Grandma. Dad wanted to take us into the city to look at Rockefeller Center, as well as the store windows at Sak's Fifth Avenue and Macy's and Lord & Taylor's and Barney's. He even has this annual newspaper article buried somewhere that supposedly lists all the store windows worth checking out; I remember using it one year, when I was maybe eight or nine, and it was the first Christmas when I thought killing myself would be more fun than looking at these lame store windows. Anyway, Dad thought it would be fun if we all looked at windows together as a family, and it took Mom and me about an hour to convince him that, no, it wouldn't be fun. Not only do none of us give a shit about the windows, but the Publisher's Clearing House Prize Patrol could drive up to our home with a check for ten million dollars and it wouldn't be fun, simply because Dad's presence sobers up any event.

Anyway, I'm off to return all the ugly shit people got me and replace it with somewhat less ugly shit.