I’m sorely conflicted about ringing in the New Year so quickly with you, dear reader. On the one hand, my absence from you has only intensified the fond longing in my heart; on the other hand, I completely support all of my comedic writing colleagues who continue their extended vacation with the Writers Guild of America.

That being said, I must return to the printed word because I don’t want any of my make-up artists, lighting technicians or fluffers to lose their jobs. I will, however, warn you that this column will bear a striking dissimilarity from my previous work, since I must refrain from presenting “any portion of written material [that] is customarily written by striking writers.” And that, my friends, means no monologues, characters or featured appearances.

What does that leave us with? Just you and I. Or, is it just you and me? Crap. Help!

Time to focus. Ok.

I spent my holiday break in the small rural town of Uniontown, Penn. My parents moved there just before I left for college. To add to the isolation of not having any friends in the area, U-town is in one of the reddest counties in a state that has been aptly described as “Pittsburgh and Philadelphia with Mississippi in the middle.”

By the way, if you have trouble remembering which states are red and which are blue, try this jiffy: in red states, very little is read save TV Guide. In blue states, the cheese that is on peoples’ Lavhosh crackers (served to them by illegal aliens to whom they just granted amnesty) is blue — or, as they would have you spell it — bleu.

Now, in the midst of small town Americana solitude, I sought two outlets for company, each with its own pleasures and pitfalls: books and the boob-tube.

Let’s start with the TeeVee. Television is great because it elucidates how my multitudinous maladaptive mannerisms are preventing me from realizing my supposed dreams. In short, it dictates how I need to be spending my student loans. Last year I was moved to buy a case of Corona to help me attract Latina women, Rosetta Stone software so I can speak Spanish to these Latina women, and a Cialis prescription for, apparently, the option of being ready fast or having up to 36 hours to relax and take my time.

This year I watched a bit less Univision (alas, my love for “Amar sin Limites” knows no bounds), and, while still suffering the subconscious trauma of self-imposed withdrawal, I grew to appreciate how I could also share TV-happenings with Americans worldwide. Whenever I found myself at the ol’ waterhole with Joe or Jane, it was a treat to share a lighthearted moment bantering about that episode of “Deal or No Deal” we both saw where multi-racial women boldly yelled ‘No Deal!’ to that silhouette of a miserly banker, followed by a 45-minute commercial break that reminded us to buy that product quick before the blowout sale ended.

Now, to television’s obscure antipode. What is this “book” I speak of, you ask? Does it bear some relation to the Facebooks from which you fill your bank of spank? Or the Starbucks from which you purchase eggnog lattes and Surawesi coffee?

Short answer: no. To find out what a book really is, click http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Book (Print readers: you can scratch-and-sniff the link for the same effect).

Top advantage of books over TV: no commercials. Plus, after reading for a couple of hours, my brain feels refined and sophisticated. Then again, since it’s a thoroughly solitary act, reading books to combat loneliness is like doing coke to combat insomnia. Just doesn’t make much sense.

Man, about here is where my writers would help me finish in a semi-meaningful way. I’m exhausted. So many words for one woman to produce. I’m going to bed.

...

Gadsbudlikins! I never finished this? Here goes nothing.

Books and TV are both viable options to counter isolation, but each seems to leave something very important out. Maybe this year I should try a more obvious remedy for loneliness: people. That way I could put this case of Cialis to good use.