Merry Fucking New Year.

As this calendar year draws to an end, I find myself a bit introspective tonight. Several beers, after an incredible win in my hockey game, helps this along nicely.

I'll skip the recap of the last year in the life o' Judd, though. Anybody who reads this diary knows that I:

• Got the bitchincoolinestass job possible.
• Got engaged to the Girl.

• Got my ass kicked in Golf and Fishing by the (ex)Girl and mother.
• Did stupid shit.
• Did more stupid shit.
• Broke up with the Girl.

• Drank a lot of beer.
• Molested Pit Bulls.

There's not a whole lot more to it than that.

Alright, there is, I didn't really molest Pit Bulls, and I want to share some of the things that have taken shape over the last few months.

---

I became more aware of a lot of things.

It's one thing to have a terribly nagging doubt about the situation of being with a certain person and wondering if they're the \"right\" one, but it's a whole other story to have the situation of the overwhelmingly \"right\" person smacking you about the head and shoulders, and being able to do nothing about it.

I'm not ashamed to admit it. I am in love with a married woman, and I'll probably never get to be with her.

There's something about the kind of passion that true love inspires though, that is almost impossible to ignore.

It inspired me to write a book, I'm working on it, and it's coming along well.

And it's going to kick ass.

But, that wasn't all that inspired me to write.

A few years ago, I read a book called, \"Running With Scissors,\" by Augusten Burroughs, and it touched me.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't a \"life-changer\" where I shaved my head and started humping the legs of passerby at the bus station.

I just liked the way he wrote. I related to him. Granted, I'm not gay and I didn't spend my formative years with crazy people, but I could still see where he was coming from.

Then, like almost all of the masses that read this, I received an email with a link to an homage to the \"Worst Album Covers Ever.\" I read it, laughed out loud in the middle of CubeWorld, and then read the rest of his \"drippings.\"

I'd never been introduced to the world of blogging, but I was instantly hooked and envisioned an environment where I could capture the wackystupidshit that goes on in my daily life.

I never considered myself a \"writer,\" tweed jacket and a pipe or no, nor did I figure that any people I didn't know (almost all of you) would ever read my drivel.

A brief mention in an insanely popular diary later, and I was mildly insanely popular as well.

Then, my life went upside-down and, a few heartfelt emails later, the author that I most respected encouraged me to write a book.

I don't know what the New Year will bring, but I have the utmost of faith that it will bring me nothing but the best of fortune, in no small thanks to some awesome people.

I owe you an email, but Thank You Augusten, for your writing and your support.

I'll see you in a couple days, but Thank You Dusty, for pointing the vast majority of my \"readership\" to this seemingly-retarded-fart-hockey-drink-and-act-stupid diary.

And Thanks to YOU, the somewhat nameless, faceless, thousands that check in here to see what stupid shit I've done lately, that offer your support when I'm down, your good feelings when I'm up, and your laughter when I'm stupid (thankfully, this is about 90% of the time).

Thanks especially to those that I've grown close to through this blog, you know who you are, because I've (hopefully) told you. If I haven't, drink a beer, and pretend I bought it for you, for you surely deserve it.

Jeezus, that was fuckin' sappy as hell.

Gimme a little room here, I'm a bit drunk.

---

As for ringing in this \"New\" Year, I had a bit of luck and some good fortune, and I'll be toasting the upcoming days with a good friend, and the hottest women that Atlanta can throw at me, at the swankiest-pimpin-coolest party in town.

Oh yes, a sexy man in a Kilt will bring them, of this there was never any doubt.

But... TWO awesomely confident men in kilts, and the ladies are sure to flock like magpies to road-kill.

Okay... a poor analogy, but you get the point.

I've said it before, but lemme tell you something about a man in a kilt.

Simply Irresistible.

There's just something about a man that can put on an article of clothing, that is normally reserved for the opposite gender, in public, and carry himself with an air of complete confidence in his manliness.

This may or may not have something to do with the fact that his manhood is swaying freely in the wind, tough call.

Regardless, here's to a raucously good time to be had this New Year's.

I'll be back next week, hopefully with some snapshots of the sexiest-kilt-wearingest-pimpinest ninjas you know.

So, be good, watch out for deer, drive safe, and drink like there's no next year.

I sure as fuck will be.

---

It's occurred to me, that I don't post a lot of pictures of me not wearing a kilt.

I'm fucking drunk now, so here's me fishing. Enjoy.

Merry Fucking New Year.

Fisticuffs for Festivus.

I don't have anything against Wyoming, it's got it's nicer parts, they won their bowl game (Good job, Pokes), and without Cheyenne I'd never, ever be able to get an emergency beer on a Sunday, but, Holy Shit, plant some fucking trees or something, because the 60-mile an hour crosswind on the goddam interstate is even less of a good time than the thin sheet of ice that it gradually pushes you across.

I guess I shouldn't complain about Wyoming, as Colorado's going to get so fucking crowded that we're just going to end up needing the extra parking up there anyway.

My Adopted Family and their collective brood were actually a pretty good time. It still kills me to see the row of exhausted, relieved faces when Uncle Judd shows up, slaps on a Montana Griz Football Helmet and gets gang tackled by 5 kids. It works out well, as the Parental Units get some well-deserved rest and I get my ever-rare Paternal Urges satisfied for another year. This usually happens about 3 minutes after I get there, when one of the 4-year olds WWF's off the top of the couch onto my nuts.

\"Oh, you should have kids, you'd make such a great father!\"

\"Yeah? Howsabout I just show up a few times a year and play with yours while still living my cherished Single Lifestyle? 'Cause seriously, my nuts couldn't handle that on a daily basis.\"

Adopted Brother's Wife and her family always have a Christmas Eve Poker Showdown at her dad's place. I know I blow SlotMachine when it comes to Poker, but I don't think it's necessary for her father to visibly salivate when he hears I'm coming over for the game. I showed him though, I drank all his goddam beer while he took all my goddam money.

When I woke up Christmas morning in the middle of the living room, with Th0mas the Train running across the back of my throbbing head and my wallet empty, I wasn't exactly feeling the spirit. Thankfully, I had a nice quiet afternoon of the Eskimo-In-Laws to look forward to.

I was actually friends with the middle Eskimo-In-Law, Monkey, early on in High School before we figured out that his older brother was dating my step-sister. I can be pretty fucking dense sometimes, but it still astonishes me that I never associated the only Inupiat (Eskimo) I knew from that High School with the only OTHER Inupiat I knew from the same High School. 8 years ago, StepSis and HisOlderBro got married, and me and Monkey were officially \"family.\" Much Good Times have ensued since.

That family is nuts though, and every gathering consists of constant attempts to out-obnoxious whomever is being the most obnoxious. Its kind of fun to watch, but to even attempt to participate is exhausting.

When Eskimo-In-Law-Mom darted her hand across the Christmas Dinner table, quick as lightning, snatched the turkey bone from off my plate, ate the knuckles off it, broke it open and proceeded to suck the marrow out, she took the fucking prize though. Hands Down.

I love those folks.

---

I got back last night in time for Gayb0y's swanky Holiday Party.

Gayb0y and his husband, Rainman, live in a decent section of town in one of those old, renovated-to-way-past-the-point-of-reason homes. They are very well off, as Gayb0y's family is some sort of Cheese Magnate out of Europe. This place was fuckin' Posh.

While I admired the natural wood trim and furnishings, my inner RedNeck was chewin' tobacky, spittin', and sayin' \"Man, dem pillow-biters sher kin do up a place, cayn't they?\"

My inner HoityToit was mildly offended by this, but managed to keep quiet while he sipped Dom Perignon and ate caviar.

I'd never hung with that kind of pompous crowd before, and even though Flam and his friends were hitting on me incessantly, I spent most of the night hanging out in the kitchen, drinking Guinness and talking hockey (or lack thereof) with Bartender Hottie from Calgary.

I was not in the best of moods when I left.

The walk to Light Rail was a bit of a long one and about halfway there I heard my bladder screaming at me, berating me for not going at all earlier while drinking 5 Guinness at GayB0y's. I stepped into a bar that was on the way.

While I am used to hearing any manner of things yelled at me from strangers while wearing the kilt, almost all of them are said somewhat tongue-in-cheek and I rarely take any offense. There are some though, that irk the fuck out of me, and \"Hey Faggot, Nice Skirt!\" is one of them.

3 guys and a girl were sitting on stools at a table along my path to the pisser, and as I stopped and turned to them, I could tell right off who had said it. He was the biggest, or at least the widest, of the 3 men, about my size, and had one of those smashed faces that makes him seem shorter while turning his eyes into glittering, mean little slits. His eyes and his sneer were what set him apart, and I looked him in the eye and said, \"Now, that's not nice.\"

I could tell he was drunk, but his speech wasn't terribly slurred as he retorted, \"Whassa matter, faggot? Panties in a bunch?\" This garnered laughter from his male friends at the table, but no one else.

I've mentioned before in this diary, that I'm a big, fat, sissy, pussyMary, when it comes to drunken confrontations. I am always the guy that talks his way out of things, and usually ends up buying beers even after getting beat up. I just wasn't in the mood to take any shit though, and I leaned in and told him, \"Hey, I don't appreciate being called, 'faggot' okay?\"

I'd painted on a smile but my eyes said, \"Fuck with me, and I'll pound a bar stool through your fucking chest.\"

His reply to this was a well thought-out and lucid, \"Only queers where skirts, faggot.\" He sneered and again looked around, pandering for laughter from his buddies.

I'm not sure why, but I decided to puff out the Peacock feathers as well, and in my best Drunken-Scottish accent said, \"Well lad, we'll see shuir enough 'oos the 'faggot' when yuir gerl's heed is a-bobbin' underneath mah 'skert!'\"

In retrospect, this probably wasn't the smartest thing to say, I can see that now.

I heard a shout of encouragement to my right and turned to see who my 'fan' was. As I turned my head back, I saw that WideHead was halfway out of his stool, and his hamhock-sized fist was on a path straight towards my face.

In the brief milliseconds before impact, my brain had some curious thoughts.

\"Is he seriously going to hit me?\"

\"He really is going to hit me.\"

\"Why is he going to hit me?\"

\"This is probably going to hurt.\"

WideHead got in a pretty good shot, and it knocked me back, but it did 3 other things as well.

1) It caused him to stumble up against me.

2) It left him off-balance.

3) It pissed me off.

4) It apparently ruined my ability to count.

Since WideHead's wide head was right next to mine now, and I was already into the whole Scottish-bit, I head-butted him.

I've never tried that before, and it hurt. Not a good move.

While I'm usually one for the whole kick-'em-in-the-nuts-then-run-away-screaming fighting style, WideHead's angry eyes told me I wasn't going to be able to run away from this one.

I realized this, and I wanted it over quickly, so instead of employing the whole wind-up-to-Colorado-Springs-roundhouse punch and risking getting hit again, I grabbed his collar, cocked my fist back a foot or so, and started rabbit-punching him in the head as fast and as hard as I could.

From a foot away, a fist doesn't pack much behind it, especially when your punching someone's incredibly thick skull. But, if you land enough blows and work a certain area, you're bound to get results. WideHead turned to try and square up again just as I was shifting my focus to his face.

When you're at the Carnival and you swing the over-sized hammer at the \"Test Your Strength\" booth, it's a highly satisfying noise when that little bell *Dings* because you know that you can now claim your stuffed Teddy Bear and go home.

During a fight, the wet, crunching, noise of bone and cartilage has a similar effect. I landed a good one dead-on his nose, and the lower half of WideHead's face was instantly splattered with his blood. He went down quickly.

In lieu of a stuffed Teddy Bear, I headed to the bathroom as I still had to piss insanely bad.

I went into the pisser, walked straight up to a urinal, hiked up the kilt, and listened as my bladder thanked me profusely.

I don't know why, but I thought that WideHead's blood was the end of the whole deal, but the reflection in the plastic ad on the wall showed me that one of his friends, a big one, had followed me in and was now standing in the doorway, staring at me.

I pretended not to notice, groaned loudly in relief, and tried to think what Jackie Chan would do in that situation. If he got rushed, he'd probably yank the urinal off the wall, jump in the air, kick 5 ninjas in the face, and then flush one of their heads on the way down.

He probably wouldn't turn around and try to pee up the guy's nose, which was what I was planning on doing.

WideHead's buddy finally walked across the bathroom to a urinal about 3 down and took a leak. I tried not to sigh audibly as I hurried my way out.

I walked by WideHead and his remaining entourage as they were swabbing at his face with a terry-cloth towel they must have garnered from the bartender. They took little or no notice of me, so I was walking briskly toward the door when a short, skinny, Weaselly-looking, guy jumped in front of me. He was dressed like the bartender, so I figured him for the manager. Plus, he had a nametag that said, \"Marlon -- Manager.\"

\"Where you think you're going?\"

I gave him a confused look and said, \"Um... home.\"

\"You're not going anywhere.\"

Again, confused. \"I'm not?\"

\"You're in real trouble here.\"

Then, it occurred to me, I'd just been in a drunken, bar brawl. I was in real trouble here.

\"You've got some things to answer for. You broke that guy's nose.\"

I had some things to answer for. I'd broken that guy's nose.

\"Clint! Call the cops. YOU stay right here.\"

I assumed Clint was the bartender, and he looked like a guy I wouldn't want to fuck with. He was all the way over at the bar though. Marlon, who was about 5'6\" and couldn't have been more than a buck fifty if he'd had a brick in his pocket, was the only one preventing me from leaving.

Still agitated, I pushed past him, telling him that WideHead started all the trouble, I had just finished it, and that he could ask anyone that saw it, including Clint.

I blew out the front door and started walking quickly down the street.

And by \"started walking quickly,\" I mean, \"ran like a retard during a kickball game.\"

I didn't hear shouting behind me, but that didn't really slow my pace much.

I kept nervously glancing over my shoulder for either the cops, the bartender/bouncer, or WideHead's revenge-seeking buddies.

I got to the Light Rail station with my heart pounding, and hid behind a Schedule Kiosk any time headlight's flashed across the platform.

See, this is why I'm not a fighter.

Wasn't I the big, bad, nose-breaking, tough-guy?

Why was I so damn scared?

As I sit here at work and type this, my jaw is slightly bruised, I've got a scratch down my right cheek, and my knuckles are red and swollen. If I'd have just kept my mouth shut, I could have avoided all of this. The worst thing I may have had to endure was some ridiculing, and possibly just the sore jaw.

Now, I can barely type with my right hand, my cheek looks like it lost a fight with a Drag-Queen, and BossGuy and VPGuy keep calling me \"Bruiser McKnuckles\" all day.

That's all I have to show for my idiocy and subsequent \"victory.\"

The lesson in all of this?

The offer-to-buy-beer or kick-to-the-crotch-and-run-screeching approaches are still preferred in any confrontation.

Because Pride isn't helping me fucking type today.

---

Oh, I forgot to send out the bestest of Holiday Wishes to all of you from the 'Hole, and a sincere hope that 2005 brings you nothing but the best.

Frankly, 2004 can kiss my fat, hairy ass.

Shhhhh, the microwave might hear you.

It is a commonly held misconception that just because inanimate objects don't have ears they can't hear what you're saying about them.

Oh, they can hear you.

I used to drive an '88 Ford Ranger. Not a bad truck, I'm pretty sure Ford fucked up the day they built it and used all of \"good\" parts on it, because that thing ran forever.

A few years after moving to the Mile High City, as graduation was looming and I had just scored a spiffy new job, I decided to trade it in and get a Dakota like I'd always wanted.

I fucked up though. I mentioned my plans to do this while I was IN the Ford. It heard me.

The laundry list of shit-that-could-go-wrong-but-never-had suddenly started to get shorter.

It was fun for a while, because it was lots of little things that gave the truck it's personality. I was the guy in the dented, beat-up, primer-colored, squeaky, missing-tailgate, no-muffler, bumper-held-on-with-bailing-wire, pickup truck.

I put the \"Red\" in \"Neck.\"

Then, things just quit working. The starter could never make up it's mind as to when it wanted to actually turn. I could always get it to work, mind you, but this involved crawling under the truck and wiggling the starter while somebody cranked the ignition.

That's a great way to meet chicks, by the way.

\"Excuse me, miss. Can you turn my crank while I wiggle it?\"

I did my homework online and found the truck I wanted, but I once again made the mistake of talking about it while I was IN the other truck. The Ford knew it was going bye-bye, and it wasn't happy.

The dealership was 12 miles from my house and that fucker smoked from under the hood the entire way. The clutch, that up until now had only been squeaking loudly unless it was depressed a half-inch, was now making a loud grinding noise. The U-joint conked out about halfway there, and I had to put the fucking thing in 4-wheel drive just to make ANY of the wheels go. The brake master cylinder took a shit about 2 lights from the dealership, and I had to Flintstone-stop into a gas station where I jammed the fucking thing with a screwdriver to keep it from seizing up.

I pulled into dealership's parking lot, found a space, went to back in, and heard the clutch say very loudly, \"Fuck This Shit!\"

That was it.

That truck was fucking dead.

Later, when told by the manager that he could only offer me $700 on trade instead of the Blue Book $1100, I stifled a giggle and tried to act disappointed.

---

I made the same mistake recently. I've been talking about selling that goddam house while I've been INSIDE of it.

And it ain't happy.

I had a showing last night, so I picked up Asshead and we went for an extended walk in the park. It never occurred to me that neither the realtor nor the prospective buyer may not know that you have to really crank on the bathroom faucet to get it to shut off.

Or that there are certain tiles in the bathroom that you don't touch because they will fall clean off the wall and send plaster chips fucking everywhere.

Or that you never run the Garbage Disposal when... well EVER anymore.

Or that the automatic garage door doesn't really work that well when it's cold out unless you tappity-tap-tap the button a few times, instead of the one steady push.

When we got home, I was greeted by a half-open garage door, black, muddy shit in my kitchen sink, and water running freely into my plaster-chip-and-broken-tile covered bathtub.

I'm never going to sell that fucking house.

Shit, it may read this.

I didn't mean it baby, Ike loves ya baby.

---

On a brighter note, my cute li'l ass won me a prize at the office X-mas party. I think it was for \"Best Matching Dimples\" or some shit, I don't really remember much of the night.

It was downtown, at the Chop House, and it was an open bar.

Let me repeat, OPEN FUCKING BAR.

Jesus Christ, they have their own brewery there. I was in heaven.

CoWorkerBuddy suggested that I start with one of their worst-tasting beers (preferably with lower alcohol content) so that I may pace my drinking and avoid making a drunken embarassment of myself.

Apparently, what I heard was, \"Drink 7 Oatmeal Stouts and 7 shots of Patron Tequila, climb on the bar, and prove to everybody that that's actually your baby picture.\"

I was enjoying the evening and making the LesbianHRLady and her partner laugh at my kilt (NOT what's under it, bitches), when ProjectManagerGirl came over, quite tanked as well, and offered me 50 bucks to climb on the bar and show my ass to the company.

The words \"...50 bucks...\" had barely exited her lips before I was mounting a bar stool and on my way up.

I never made it though.

For being short and kind of frumpy, CFOGuy is surprisingly strong and quick, and apparently knew what I was planning on doing.

I checked first thing Monday morning, though, and I'm not fired.

It probably didn't hurt that CEOGuy was watching the whole exchange, and was almost in tears when I started singing a song I apparently made up about \"...what would one do for 50 bucks... ...drink Tequila something something fuck... ...Oatmeal Stout is neither too Oatmealy, nor Stouty... ...lifting my kilt now, lass, don't be pouty...\"

I'll confess that I remember neither the song, nor singing it, but apparently it was a big hit.

Drinking like that though, isn't recommended in Judd's life anymore.

Waking up across town in the apartment of someone you've only known for a few hours with their Great Dane sniffing your ass, and riding the public transit as hangover-head-wrinkled-kilt-crookedly-buttoned-shirt-bleary-eyed-smokey-Tequila-smelling-guy isn't recommended either.

It was a real good time though.

So I hear.

Life is a Swizzle Stick.

Have you ever been stirring coffee with those tiny, little, couldn't-possibly-ever-suck-anything-through straws?

Ever lost your handle on that little straw and watched the swirling coffee take it round and round? It doesn't move in a uniform circle either, it'll jump from one side to the other and then sit. Then swirl around a couple times, and then stall out.

I just spent the last 5 minutes trying to catch that goddamed little straw in my coffee. The coffee wasn't swirling for five minutes on its own, I just lost my grip on the straw that many times.

Life is kinda like that cuppa office-sludge.

I'm just trying to keep a steady motion going without going too fast, for I will spill, or too slow, for things will get stagnant and ruin the mixture.

Too often lately I've lost my grip on that fucking straw though, and spent in inordinate amount of time chasing it around the cup.

I know what you're thinking... and you're right.

\"Why not just put your finger on one spot on the rim and wait for the straw to make it's way around?\"

Answer: Because I'm a goddamed idiot, that's why.

Also because that would be the exact moment that the little straw's little feet would gain purchase on the sugar-coated bottom of the coffee cup, and it would stay hung up on the side only until I reached for it, when it would deftly dodge my fingers and go back to swirling.

That little straw is a fucker like that.

---

Gayb0y organized a \"treat-chart\" for the month of December, where everybody in IT brings in a \"treat\" on a different day.

He was so excited about it that I agreed to bring in a goddamed treat. I figured that I'd wow everybody with my culinary skills (as well as further regress into either a really hairy chick, or a complete gaywad) and make home-made caramels.

I stirred that sugary-shit for 2 and a half fucking hours last night. I followed The Mom's recipe to the fucking letter. I did everything right. I got 'em in the fridge before nighty-night, and figured I'd cut 'em into little squares when I got to the office.

I was understandably upset when I threw the pan in the truck this morning, and my supposed-to-be-firm-enough-to-be-little-squares mixture displayed the tendencies of fuck-you-Judd-I-decided-to-be-ice-cream-topping instead.

I stormed into the nearest grocery store, bought some of their shitty baked goods, and then fumed into the office. As I was attempting to put the store-bought crap onto plates and strive for some semblance of home-madey goodness, I noticed that the people who were eagerly waiting for their \"treat\" were rapidly losing interest.

\"What? Nobody likes stale-ass, day-old, lumps of shit covered in sugary, crunchy frosting?\"

\"Hmph. Thanks for taking the time to care. You must have been up all night 'baking.' Thought you were bringing caramels.\"

\"Hey, Fuck You, and fuck those fuckin' caramels too.\"

*offended look*

\"Sorry. Why isn't anybody even going for the Blueberry Bread? It's not THAT shitty.\"

\"Oh, it looks good, but it didn't help it's appeal when you kept digging the sections out of the carton, licking your fingers, and then grabbing more pieces of bread.\"

\"Oh shit, I didn't even know I did that.\"

\"OBVIOUSLY. You did it, like 5 times in a row.\"

\"Aw fuck 'em, everybody's already seen my ass out in the hallway by now, they can partake of some of my cooties too.\"

---

As for the \"Guess the Baby Picture Voting\" shit, apparently I'm not doing so well in the hunt for the Least Recognizable Award.

I didn't think you could see that much of my face in that picture, but there are people from the 4th floor Accounting Department that are guessing me correctly.

Shit man, I've only met some of these folks once or twice, what the hell?

I was told that most guessed it by personality, and that I'm heavily in the lead for the Biggest Troublemaker Award.

Sweet.

Sign me up for more gay-ass lamewad Christmas shit, please.

---

Email from VPGuy this morning: Come see me for your \"package.\"

I grabbed my own \"package\" just to check and make sure VPGuy didn't have it, and then wandered into his office.

It's well-rumored in our department, that our Holiday Bonuses were to be delayed until after the New Year for tax reasons or some shit. Not only did this news effectively crap all over my plans of actually purchasing gifts for anyone at all this year, it killed a couple of my hopes for paying some bills too.

The whole caramel-squares-into-caramel-sauce thing already had me pretty pissy, so I wasn't in the mood to be fucked with about how much money I WON'T be getting for Christmas.

VPGuy: 'Morning Judd! Excited for your first Christmas at MyCompany?

Me: Oh, you bet. I'm especially enjoying watch sales dip because people are out buying other shit, instead of our products.

VPGuy (Smile fading): Well, your 'pet' project is still doing pretty well isn't it?

Me: Yeah, I guess, but Caramel-Square-Sauce and Blueberry Cootie Bread isn't making my day either.

VPGuy (perplexed look): Wha... (shakes head) Anyway, you're a pretty big guy, you wear a double-X L?

Me: Sure, at least until I wash it. Which, theoretically, could be months.

VPGuy (tossing me a baby blue sweatshirt with MyCompany Logo on it): Merry Christmas!

I tried faking enthusiasm by clutching it to my chest and squealing, but I could tell that he wasn't buying it.

To further prove my \"sincerity\" to him, I stripped off my shirt and threw on that cheesy-ass sweatshirt in the middle of his office.

\"See?!? I love it!\" I shouted, with a big smile.

I thought he was still looking at me skeptically until I turned around and was reminded that his office has glass walls and is in the middle of MyCompany's offices. Directly across from the Baby Pictures in the hallway. Where all the office people were gathered looking at the Baby Pictures. And are now looking at me.

I was kind of hoping for laughter, or even applause (c'mon ego-booster, give Daddy some love), instead I got expectant looks and the office manager shouting, \"Are the pants next? Gonna prove this picture is really you?\"

It was that exact moment when my brain was wondering what the appropriate response would be while my hands were already unfastening my belt, and I felt VPGuy's hand on my shoulder.

\"Hey! Slow down there Tex, got something else for ya.\"

I fastened my belt back up, and looked at the very large check in his hand... with my name on it.

\"...Whoa... Merry Christmas...\"

Money doesn't buy happiness, but it rented me a much better mood.

The good, die young.

We all have that friend, the one that eventually becomes friends with the people that we introduce them to, separate from our friendship. Whether this is because they are the affable-funny-gets-drunk-and-hugs-everybody type (*ahem* Yours Truly), or because they are simply good people, others are drawn to them and call them \"friend.\"

I had a friend, growing up in rural Montana, named Robert*, that was one of the latter. Everybody that met him, liked him, and everyone that really knew him, loved him. Throughout our formative years, and beyond, I never heard a bad word about him from anyone, ever.

*changed

He was a quiet kid and painfully shy, but shy without being reclusive. He was like a well in our lives, deep, rock-solid and immovable, waiting for you to draw from him what you needed, yet never running dry.

He loved and gave of himself completely and whole-heartedly, and never held back. This sometimes drew unsavory people to him like druggies, losers and the occasional manipulative woman. He never really had very good luck with women because he was too quiet to draw the attention of the cheerleader/popular types. Instead, the girls with serious baggage tended to find him and, because of his giving nature, they tended to take advantage of his open heart and freely given love.

I helped him pick up the pieces of his broken heart more than once, as he helped me with mine once.

Though we grew up a grade apart, we'd known each other since birth, and his family's ranch was one of the two that I grew to call \"another home.\" We each had our times when we ran with different crowds, but we always called the other, \"friend,\" and we'd always go back to hanging out together every few months or so.

He was the guy that you could always call upon if you needed a ride somewhere, or to borrow five bucks, or if you just needed a dip of chew in between classes. He would do any of these things willingly and happily, for he always trusted that, when and if he needed it, any of the people that he gave to would give the same to him in return.

He had an unshakeable faith in humanity.

When we got busted for Underage Possession of Alcohol, and he puked all over himself while the cop was arresting us, I took off my hooded sweatshirt, tore off the ratty old tank-top I had on, and gave it to him to clean himself up. Forever after that, I was known as the friend who \"really DID give him the shirt off his back.\"

I never would have considered otherwise, as I would've done anything for him, as he would have for me.

His Senior year, when he broke a school record for touchdowns and yardage as our star tailback and got voted 1st team All-State, he bought me a case of beer, as I was the one who did most of the blocking for him. He smiled, thanked me and told me that he couldn't have done it alone. He was always thoughtful like that.

After I graduated and moved far away to school, our contact became sporadic, as it did with most of my friends and family. Some friends \"grew up\" and we didn't hang out any longer on my visits home. Robert and I always found time for each other though, even during the busy holidays. When we hung out, it was as if time had never lapsed. This became easier over the years, as most of my very good friends now included him in that group as well, and our tight-knit crew grew only tighter.

He eventually got married, as we all knew he would, finding once again a woman that none of us really liked. He loved her though, more than anything else, and none of us would have ever thought to question his love for anyone, as we had all been the beneficiaries of it.

His love for her changed over the years, particularly when we all suspected her of infidelity, but when his son was born, it was as if all of his years of giving himself to unappreciative women were suddenly washed away.

He loved that little boy more than I'd ever seen a father love a son. The two of them seemed like twin halves of the same soul. Even though his friends and family knew that his son took precedence over all others in his life, we all still knew that he was there for anything we needed, perhaps moreso at that point than ever.

He still spent his weekends helping his aging parents with their assorted ranching chores, yet always found time for his friends, whether it was helping them move, watching football on Sunday, or whooping it up on Saturday night.

He had very little money, so most of the time on gift-giving occasions, you would receive something he'd made in his wood-working shop. His creations were truly works of art, and each and every one had a piece of his heart and soul in them. When asked how he could part with some of the flawlessly beautiful pieces, he would humbly reply, \"Oh, I can always make another one.\"

He was the best in all of us.

---

He died, two years ago today, in a car accident on a quiet stretch of Montana highway. The details of which I won't go into because of the senselessness of their nature. Suffice to say, he was hit head-on by someone who shouldn't have been driving.

When I got the phone call at work, it was from his little brother, who is a cop now in Montana and was obviously well practiced at delivering news of that nature. After I put the phone down, I stared at my keyboard for 4 and a half hours straight, feeling absolutely nothing. I only know the time duration because I got the call just after lunch, and only looked up when my co-workers turned the office lights off, signaling that it was time to go home.

I went home and waited outside, in the cold, for the Girl to come home. When she did, I collapsed in her arms and sobbed like a baby.

The drive home to Montana was filled with many of these moments, and it wasn't easy to be surrounded by holiday \"cheer.\"

It wasn't just me that was grief-stricken though, we all felt the same way, and other's tears were nothing but a comfort. Everyone that knew him, wept for him. His funeral packed the tiny Church, and people that neither he nor I had seen in 10 years drove across several states in a matter of days, just to be there.

I remember very little of the services.

Burying him was the hardest thing I've ever done in my entire life.

---

I'd never been religious, but if I had any shred of belief in a benevolent, higher power, it died that day.

If it indeed was one entity's decision to take the best person in all of our lives from us, then I would sincerely like to meet Him/Her in person...

...and punch them square the fucking face.

Anger.

Loss.

Grief.

I obviously still have a lot that I need to deal with. Some of it has faded over time, but it is still frighteningly intense sometimes (like now), and I don't know that it will ever completely go away.

I just miss my friend.

---

About two months after his death, I had a dream about him. I was relatively lucid, in that I knew that he was dead and found it strange that he would be there in front of me, talking to another friend of ours. When it was obvious it was my turn to visit with him and he turned to me with a warm smile, the wall opened up into a brilliant, glowing door. He gave me a regretful look, turned from me, and walked through it.

I woke up feeling happy that he had attempted to visit me, but bitter that we hadn't gotten a chance.

For Saint Patrick's Day, a few of us got together here in Denver, for a night of drinking and pool. It was the first time we'd all been together since the funeral, and the evening understandably devolved into a slobbering, tear-stained mess. As we ordered the 3rd round of shots, I told the others about my dream.

As I laid it out in the best detail I could recall, I watched their faces turn from somber sadness to disbelief, especially when I shared with them the relative time frame in which I'd had the dream.

Upon hearing this, AdoptedBrother just stared shell-shocked at his lap. The Girl's brother, Shithead, screamed loudly, \"No fucking way!\" and stormed off.

After some prompting, AdoptedBrother told me that he'd had a similar dream around that same time, and he hadn't gotten to talk to Robert either but his dead Grandpa had told him that he was looking after him and that he was fine.

Shithead eventually came back to the table, very drunk yet visibly shaken, and told us about a dream he had had, during the same time frame, about how he'd seen Robert and wasn't able to talk to him yet knew he was okay.

---

Over the years, I've dreamt about him often, at least once a month.

Sometimes, he has something to give to me, a box of cigars, a twelve-pack of beer, or the CD of an obscure band that we both loved.

Sometimes, we're both 15 again, pitching hay bales back on the ranch.

The other night, we were fishing, and his son as well as other people significant in my life, were with us enjoying his company.

In my dreams, I don't always realize that he is dead and shouldn't be there with me, drinking a beer at the local bar. Sometimes, when I do realize and ask him how it is that he can be there with me, he gives me a look of sadness, like I just broke one of the rules, and he is gone.

---

I used to have specific plans for what was to come of me after my death.

Now, when I think of where I want those that loved me to visit my remains, I can't think of anywhere better than somewhere near my friend.

This was taken at Thanksgiving.

As he visits me in my dreams, I never fail to visit his grave when I am home.

Sometimes, I talk to him.

Sometimes, I take a pinch of chewin' tobacco and put it on his headstone.

Sometimes, I lay in the grass and watch the horses graze in a nearby pasture.

Every time I'm there though, an unseen switch is thrown in my brain, and my tears flow freely. No matter if I try or not, I can't stop them.

---

I have a hockey game now, and I have to attempt to clean myself up before I get to the rink or come up with a good story about why my eyes are moist and swollen.

Cement-headed hockey players or not, they are unlikely to buy my story of \"allergies\" when it's the middle of December, and I am not about to tell the whole lockerroom that I am sad because I miss my friend.

We don't win when I'm happy or grumpy, we're sure to lose if I'm somber and depressed.

Yes, I make light of things to hide the pain.

---

I'll leave you with this.

For those closest to you... Love 'em.

Love 'em with everything you got.

Never miss an opportunity to tell them what they mean to you.

I do my damnedest to try and do this in my life, and I've never regretted it. Awkward moments or not, it's always worth it.

And a sweaty, 220-pound, goalie, hugging his defenseman in the rink parking lot after a heart-to-heart talk is awkward, trust me.

Again, with the joking.

I gotta go.

Take care all.