It's MY party! And you can't make me cry.

This post is not being written for pity. I honestly don't want to talk about it, but still feel the need to get this off my chest. This has been weighing on me and writing about it seems the best way to acknowledge it without having to acknowledge it.

I suppose it's true that I did NOT in fact have The Worst Christmas Ever. After all, I am alive unlike Gerald Ford or James Brown.

However, my holiday was spent in its entirety at work. Alone on a sad, dreary Christmas day. An even more lonely Christmas Eve had me crying in the dark hoping for a call, text or IM from family or friends. And me, being a silly Super, feigning sentiments of enjoying the time alone.

Never before have I had a problem being alone. Hell, it still does not bother me. And for the record, I have never enjoyed the Christmas holiday. I have proudly been called a grinch. However, there is something about being alone on Christmas that emphasizes the feeling: an empty, desolate, sinking feeling deep in my chest. Being alone on Christmas places a giant exclamation mark right after the word. ALONE!

I did not call anybody for fear of bringing others down. Why should I ruin somebody else's day?

As I said, my day was spent at work from 2pm until 10pm. A fat, sweaty kid who rubs scoal (obviously this kid is single, right?) cancelled his shift at the last minute and it came down to me or a woman who has a one-year-old baby. What monster would make a mommy work on Christmas? I was originally scheduled to work from 6am-2pm, thus allowing me an entire afternoon and evening with The Mister's family. Not the greatest prospect, and yet, a festive gathering nonetheless.

The Mister had stayed over Christmas Eve at his mother's (EMIL) house to help her prepare. I stayed home alone knowing if I had been at EMIL's house, I would not have slept and been a disaster for work. The Mister's mother is horrible when it comes to Christmas Procrastination and on Christmas day, while I was at work, he must have called me no less than thirty times not including texts. Each time he would tell me he was 'fed up' or 'over this crap'. Each time I would think, "At least you aren't alone" and then I would talk him back from the edge by urging him to have another eggnog (a vile concoction at that, but with enough bourbon...I still think it's awful).

Every time The Mister called he never asked if I was doing okay. It never occurred to him the day might be a little rough on me as well. He kept telling me about his mother's self-absorption.

Frankly, I don't care about gifts but somehow, I wonder if a new tote -a fancy new tote- might make me feel a little cheerier. A gift for myself, if you will. It would be nice, but I don't have the leeway for frivolity. Maybe I should wrap something for myself. Ah, hell. This feeling will surely pass along with the need for a fancy new tote bag.

Post Script:
I wrote this post three days ago. Although my feelings of sadness have gone -POOF!- I still think I would like a fancy new tote bag!

Inspiration aka How I Lost My Eyesight

After reading Oxymoron Hipster Dork's blog about his parent's scromping, I've been inspired to write about a time -a very dark time- in which I, too, felt the compulsion to burn out my eyes. Although I've tried very hard to erase the memory, obviously my attempts have been futile.
I have no other way to describe this but to tell the whole story in the disjointed terrorizing way it happened.
It was Christmas day 1999. I was home for holiday break and as with every Christmas day, around 8:00pm my friends would start calling. We would get together, hang out, probably smoke something and recover from a day full of overextending relatives. Not realizing we would end up at a bar, I had not taken my identification. Upon figuring out my lack of necessity, I sped back home to collect the goods. In my cup holder, there was a large orange juice and I decided to take it inside (this fact may seem innocuous, but is important). It was almost 8:30, very dark outside, the porch light had been turned off and I'd only been gone for 15 minutes. I opened the screen door letting it whack me in the butt, put my key in the lock and pushed the door open.
On the couch were my mother and father.
I distinctly remember skin, rapid movement and multiple shouts of "Oh my god!" from every party involved.
I grabbed the doorknob and yanked it back so hard it hit my arm with the large orange juice spilling it down the front of me and then stepped backwards into something horribly squishy while the screen door caught my other arm in the door jam. I screamed.
A minute later my mother opened the door to usher me in and found me covered in orange juice and shame. She flipped on the porch light and screamed. Her screaming made me scream again, but I had no idea why she was screaming. Then I looked down and saw a horrifying mess of what can only be described as entrails.
Apparently, the cat had decided to get in on the gift-giving business of Christmas and had left a dead rabbit at the door. The leavings were what I'd stepped in after my eyes had been burned out.
I took off my shoes, ran inside, changed clothes, grabbed my I.D. and ran back out.

When I arrived back at my friend's house it was noticed that not only had I changed clothes, but I had a somewhat shell-shocked look upon my mug.
All I could mutter was, "I need a drink and then I will tell you the story of The Worst Christmas Ever."