Whenever I get upset about not having something I want, I run the risk of being called spoiled by my own super-ego. Unless it is one of the basic necessities for life that one is missing, like shelter, food, and water, it is common to hear that little voice in your head begin to chime in and discount your own misery, saying things like "get over it" and "it is only as important as you define it to be." And while this sentiment offers some consolation, it also feels like a trap, a way to lose sight of the things I care about. It feels like sabotage of my will, on top of the frustration with which I am already trying to cope.

This is about our Internet connection going down this weekend, and the noise from our neighbors.

What else? It is also about the fact that we are all going to die. We are all going to lose our privileged, god-like perspective and consciousness of this universe and fade abruptly into nothingness. In this sense, not one of us is spoiled. Not one of us is over-privileged. If I had an eternity to do the things I want to do I would be far more tolerant of interference and interruption.

A Buddhist or someone of similar philosophical ilk would probably tell me that I can escape unhappiness by accepting the fullness of the present moment. Which is probably true but if I did that would I ever get any work done? And by work I mean the act of creating, a high on which I am quite clearly hooked, and have been ever since I started working as a web developer in earnest during the Happy Puppy era and I would go to bed every night exhausted from processing so much content but deeply fulfilled and only halfway through a mental inventory of all the things that I had published during the course of the day.

It's a two-sided pleasure: there's the joy of watching it unfold, and sensing a smile creep across my face when what I am making looks right, that mixture of beautiful and interesting which defines my creative objective. And there is the satisfaction in having done something that will exist outside of me and my possibly ill fortunes, something that I can build on later, something that I can turn to repeatedly to receive a thrill of both pride and the original delight I felt in its creation.

I haven't posted in almost a month. We spent Thanksgiving weekend on San Juan island, during most of which I was, unfortunately, in a great deal of pain. Highlights include the incredible food our hosts prepared for us, the pair of bald eagles we watched gliding in the strong cold breeze at water's edge, the alpaca farm with its dozens of fuzzy residents looking more like Dr. Seuss characters than farm animals where I paid an unprecedented sum of money for a pair of socks made from their fur. There was also the joy of being cozy with Mathew in a log cabin with a gas fire and a stack of good books by the bedside. Unbelievably (although increasingly inevitably) the neighboring house across the field was prone to producing loud, bass-heavy music throughout the night, prompting me to keep a fan turned on to block out the thumping.

If I were in charge of things, it would be illegal to make that much noise. The penalty would be the instant and permanent revocation of one's right to own speakers. And maybe a little physical torture thrown in for good measure.

I just don't get it. I guess I'm some sort of ancient, withering, overly-sublimated introverted sheep but when I want music really loud, I put on headphones, or I go out to a club or a concert. I can't enjoy something if I know it is subjecting others to a forced participation in my musical preferences. Maybe because music is so important and personal to me, maybe because I am shy, maybe because I am afraid, maybe because I am considerate, maybe all these things at once. Playing music that loud and knowing that it intrudes on others is an act of aggression, which is simply not a familiar behavior for me.

And yet, it seems I am experiencing increasing amounts of excessive or inappropriate anger. At the office on Friday I shocked myself by responding to a co-worker's mostly good-natured kidding by a strongly-worded statement of sheer hostility and annoyance. I had asked him to install software on my machine that I have needed for years and did not even know we owned until I heard another co-worker asking about it. I would have been happy to perform the installation myself but holding dominion over software is an important way in which the IT department maintains control over its "users". When he responded to my request with a humorous "not in a million years" or some such, I refused to play a part in what I felt was a power trip, a way to invert our job roles. Also, it was ten minutes before lunch and I was hungry, which always contributes to a feeling of irritability.

It sucks to go around feeling so indignant all the time, and yet I can't seem to escape this deep-seated feeling of annoyance with the world. There shouldn't be so many of us, we shouldn't have cut down all the trees, we shouldn't live so close together, we shouldn't fill our bodies with fake food, we shouldn't trust economics alone to provide a decent life for us.

I keep writing myself into the same familiar corners. In happier news, I switched cell phone carriers from AT&T to Verizon, along with acquiring their most basic model of phone, which is outperforming my old service by leaps and bounds, seeing as how the unit has not once rebooted itself when I attempt to make a call, something my miserable Panasonic did on a daily basis.

My dad's treatments are keeping the cancer in check, and not making him so miserable that he can't participate in the things he enjoys, like announcing and singing at church. I have another trip to Logan planned for the end of this month. I have been on so many planes lately that when I settle into my seat at a concert, I have an urge to strap myself in.

The office holiday party is next Wednesday and there has been much excitement among my closest circle of lady friends concerning what to wear. I ordered a ton of inexpensive makeup and have come to realize that the best part of my morning ritual is the moment I apply my lip gloss. I would like to thank whomever came up with the idea to make lip gloss both sparkly and smelling like sugary, fruity candy. My addiction to L'oreal colorjuice continues to grow unabated, and there are sixteen other products from other make-up brands that I am eager to try. I bought a dress at a resale shop on 15th to wear to the party. It is blue velvet and rayon, floor-length, and I love it. I have been trying to find an appropriate wrap for it, since it is sleeveless. I picked up a shimmery piece of fabric yesterday morning at the outlet mall in Auburn that I hope will go well with it. I also would love a matching set of sapphire jewelery to accompany it but I must save my money for the new Mac and the new Schnauzer that are scheduled to make an appearance in my life early next year.

I bought a small plastic tree with embedded lights and set it up in our empty living room. It is very glittery and cute, but something inside of me misses a full-size tree. Not a real one; our family always hauled out the same plastic model year after year. The holidays always remind me how difficult it is to recapture the excitement and bliss of youth. Mathew says his life is better now than it ever has been which makes me feel perversely unlucky to have had such a happy childhood.

I can recall quite clearly how thrilled I was each year in December when the Christmas decorations were strung across the streets in Logan. But those big green ropes of tinsel began to fade even before I moved away from my parents. When was the tipping point, how old was I when they started to look a little sad? Was this feeling due to the dawning of an adult-like maturity or my illness? The two are inextricably intertwined. At least I have my memories, and my favorites involve walking home from church after midnight mass through a cold, snowy winter night, looking wildly forward to opening presents — with my parents at my side, the three of us united, with work and school and the rest of our separate pursuits temporarily held at bay by the sanctity of the holidays. Or a moment on the couch watching a Christmas show listening to a Christmas carol realizing that this, quite simply, is as good as it gets. Perhaps that was the precise instant the lively creatures of my childhood imagination began their transformation into wallpaper, symbols of themselves, decorations in the background of my all my subsequent, feeble rememberings.