Humbug, redux

Man, do I hate Christmas. For years my loathing has been preempted by the annual visit from my mom and brother — the pleasure of their company far outweighing my general despair over forced participation in a holiday I care nothing about — but this year, neither can make the trek. As a result, I’m back to curmudgeonhood. First of all, the financial disparity between what I would like to do and what I can do is significant and one hundred percent my own damn fault. Second, the box of decorations, stockings, etc. is currently barricaded by my oldest daughter’s stuff — she moved back home while I was out of the country. Christmasing it up just feels like a real pain in the ass.

(This is the point where I insert something about gratitude, lest it appear I have none. Consider it done.)

January can’t arrive quickly enough. And I think I must fling myself in the ocean tomorrow, regardless of conditions, to purge this cranky from my soul and fill it back up with some semblance of peace.

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