I was cautiously hopeful this year. I wanted it to be the year that I was actually “into it.”
I didn’t ask Santa for an absence of Christmas this year. I actually asked him to clean my kitchen for me. Just wash the dishes so I don’t have to do it. Again.
Alas, I woke up to a Christmas morning and a dirty kitchen.
That fat bastard has always hated me. Probably because I’ve always thought of him as a fat pedophile convict who gets away with mass break-ins only because he leaves stuff behind.
But THIS year was going to be different. Things had changed since last year and the year before. This year… it was going to be a glimpse at what Christmas really should be.
The problem with being hopeful and anxious? There’s that slight chance of disappointment.
And disappointment never fails to come when called. And he always brings his blasted friends who destroy everything they touch.
I’ve done my Christmas usual today. You know, the day that I was actually supposed to be somewhat excited… I waited for someone for a while, read too much, gave up on the person, and after I write this, I’m going to do what I should have done in the first place: the same thing I do every Christmas. Grieve, get mad, give up, grieve, and sleep.
So, Mr. Holiday Spirit… you know where you can stick it. The same place I told you to stick it last year and the year before… and the year before… and the year before…
And maybe next year I’ll finally remember to take the necessary steps to just skip over this godforsaken holiday.