It’s here. If you don’t have it, the guy next to you in line at the market or sitting in the next chair at the barber shop does. They all have the same excuse, “Don’t worry, I’m over it now.”

I miss John Boehner. I miss Harry Reid, “Plan B” and Eric Cantor. I even miss Donald Trump and Mitt. I miss the terrible anxiety of the fiscal cliff, and the push and shove of the hordes rushing through the mall. This week I pulled back the sheets to reveal that I am not only a political junkie, but an unabashed stress junkie.

Is there any truth to the rumor that the CIA used “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” as a torture device when interrogating prisoners? An apocryphal tale perhaps, but I can see its value.

As you read this, you probably already know that I’ve won the $550 million Powerball lottery. There is a chance, of course, that I did not. That’s ridiculous, but I have to say it. I’m a very positive person, and have already started a list of things I’m going to do with the money.

She was tall, Judy was, maybe 5 feet, 11 inches in her bare feet. I confess a life-long passion for tall girls. I called her Judy and she never liked it. Her name was Judith, and she insisted that everyone who knew her call her that, because she wanted to be an opera singer and Judy wouldn’t cut it.

We were the only two tenants on the fifth floor. I was the struggling actor, with a view of a street bordered with colored, discarded doors where they were tearing down our neighborhood, just down from West 67th and Columbus, a space that would soon become Lincoln Center.