Woe is me, I have not been found worthy to be selected as The Watergirl's Christmas boyfriend. After a devastating blow such as this, the only reasonable course of action is to turn my anger on the world at large. That's right, I'm borrowing a page from Hank Scorpio's playbook and unleashing the fury of Operation: Arcturus! Be not surprised the day after Christmas when the headline of your newspaper reads: SUPERVILLAIN SEIZES EAST COAST.

"Oh, my God. He blew up the 59th Street Bridge."
"Maybe it collapsed on its own."
"We can't take that chance."
"Oh, you always say that. I want to take a chance!"

In an email she sent before leaving California, Lindsay said, "Point is, we haven't talked in too long." The anti-Lindsay campaign hasn't been going so well because I was pretty aware of all the things I don't like about her when I fell for her. I could really use a good cry. I wish I could just fucking break down and cry. It's not that I have a problem with crying, that I think men shouldn't cry, I want to cry. I encourage crying, people often need that release. But the last time I cried was at Grandpa Little's wake when I just couldn't walk away from the casket. The first and last time I cried over a girl was junior year of high school and I was fucking sixteen. The tears just won't come. After our one and only date, I was perfectly happy to hate her, to write her off as a manipulative bitch. Why did she try so hard to befriend me the following summer? Reconciliation was her idea, she made the first moves. A part of me wishes she'd just left well enough alone.

My aunt and uncle in Austin, my dad's sister and brother-in-law, gave me a subscription to the National Review for Christmas. The gift card, which came to the house in Ann Arbor, included the tag line "The conservative's magazine." Jesucristo, just because I vote Republican doesn't make me a conservative. I'm pro-choice. I don't worship at the church of tax cuts. I'm in favor of an adventurous, interventionalist foreign policy. I will oppose prayer in school with my dying breath. I support gun control. I don't believe America is in moral decay. Gaah, the Wilsons drive me crazy. Seriously, every one of them is a lunatic. My dad is far and away the most normal of his brothers and sister. Do you have any idea how sad that is? Uncle Lin's a Libertarian; the last time I saw him, he was carrying a gun on his person. I've never seen Uncle Skeezy without a beer in his hand; his name's Harold, his friends call him Hal, Skeezy's a childhood nickname that won't die. Aunt Meg and Uncle Fred don't have any kids (with the exception of Coach and his wife, I don't trust people who've been married for twenty-plus years and don't have kids), and as time passes their conservativism is beginning to look a lot more like Lin's anarchism. Of course, maybe I should just be thankful I don't have any cousins on that side. Grandma Wilson's old and increasingly senile, but back when she had all her marbles she was nutty as a fruitcake. Grandpa Wilson, may he rest in peace, was a crazy man; when I was a little kid, I honestly thought he had red eyes.

Dan Rydell on Sally Sasser: "I say she has no reflection!"