Mr. Nina, a.k.a. Colin Farrell, being in rehab. Well, I'm not going to dispel anything. The rumors are true. Collsy, unfortunately, has hit a rough patch. But before you go denouncing him and his lack of willpower, you should know right now that it's all my fault. See, Colin is a sensitive soul. When I'm in pain, he's in pain. And right now, we're both in a lot of pain, and Colin is self-medicating.
So Colin is off at rehab, and really, it's good we're having this time apart. We both have some shit to slog through. Colin has to tear apart his psyche, stripping his emotional makeup down to its very foundation in order to find out why he turns to drugs and alcohol to numb his pain. Whereas I have to get through Christmas.
See, one day, after I've sold the movie rights to the Great American Novel that I wrote and I have my kickass mountain home staffed with deaf-mutes who I don't actually have to talk to, I won't have to deal with this holiday bullshit. But right now, I am on the edge of sanity, baby. I say this not as a Jew but as a Social Phobic: If you people don't stop shoving, driving like idiots and wearing those fucking sweaters, I am going to lose it. I don't care if you want to wish me a Merry Christmas, just STOP SINGING ABOUT IT.
I live behind a shopping center. I am unable to travel between the outside world and my safe little home without going in and out of this shopping center and navigating my way through its Traffic Light of Death. Honestly, something must happen to one's brain chemistry upon the purchase of drastically-reduced Gap denim that causes one to think making a left turn from the right lane is perfectly acceptable. Because you know what? It's not.
And if you know me personally, I would like to apologize right now for not getting you a gift. I leave the house with good intentions. I will park far away from the store entrance. I say to myself. I will not jockey for a parking spot with that lady in the minivan who is quite possibly armed. I will enter the store with a good idea of what I'm going to buy my family member/friend/co-worker/bookie, so as not to wander around aimlessly. I will expect that the cashier will have the I.Q. of a small farm animal, and I will not become impatient with him/her/it. I will not become annoyed at the background music, instead remarking, "Gosh! That Kenny G really knows his way around an alto sax!" I will accomplish what I came to do with Zen-like calm and a loving Christmas spirit. I will not, under any circumstances, disintegrate into a ball of irrational anger and vow to remain indoors until February. But it doesn't quite work out that way, and I wind up getting so overwhelmed in the parking lot that I don't even make it into the store.
No, this year, I will celebrate the holidays the best way I know how: Alone and bitter. I'd invite you over, but, you know, I'm kind of at the height of my misanthropy right now.
As for Colin and I, don't worry, we'll be fine. We've weathered a few storms in our time together, like that whole sex tape fiasco, and the eBay debacle, and the reckless persecution of the media. We're going to come out on the other side of this stronger than ever. Right now, though, I have to figure out what to do with those 13 cases of "emergency" whiskey Colin stashed in the basement before he gets home.