I’ve been noticing a disturbing trend as I watch this season’s games, including last night’s fugfest.

I’m just too goddamn happy.

Seriously. It’s bothering the hell out of me.

When Millar attempts to hit the third baseman and his throw ends up in the stands, I assume the “curse and break stuff” position, yet my mind fills up with the warm images of his critical walk in Game Four of last year’s ALCS.

When Embree serves up a walk-off home run, I break out the “hurtin’ sticks,” only to find myself transported to Yankee Stadium, watching him spin off the mound in ecstasy as the AL title is secured.

And when Bellhorn strikes out in a key situation, I reach for the blowtorch and pliers, then get reminded of that sweet dinger off Pesky’s Pole in Game One of the Series.

No different last night, as I watched Wells turn in the veritable antithesis of his gutsy performance last week in Baltimore. I sighed. I muttered. I shook my head in disgust at all the right moments.

But that puppy-kicking, whiskey-swilling cretin who would normally stomp around my place after a Sox loss? He’s been replaced by a guy who spends way too much time polishing his copy of Faith Rewarded, checking the humidity in his “Souvenir Newspaper Clippings” room, and working on his Dave Roberts wood carvings [available this summer!]. I’m simply far too high on the fumes of the 2004 season to let anything bother me these days. And I’m not so sure I ever want to shake it off.

Not that the anger was a good thing. I’ve lost more “drinkin’ buddies” and torpedoed countless relationships after folks got a good look at the Bruce Banner-esque transformation that takes hold as I watch a Sox game. Now when the crew comes over, I’m all handing out Dale Svuem-shaped cookies and performing “Tessie” between innings on the clarinet.

Sure, sometimes, I do miss that crazy bastard. But you never know. Maybe he’ll show up tonight.