I don't have much to say about the holidays.
Not in a Grinchy way. I still love me some Christmas. But I'm spent. I have a week's worth of beard and bags under my eyes. I haven't slept more than five hours in I don't know how long. There is a beautifully decorated tree downstairs, candles and fire lit, festive hors d'oeuvres and the casual chatter of a girl scout troop reunion, and I'm holed away upstairs, watching free porn clips while haphazardly packing for a ten day trip.
I'm not joking about any of that, by the by. Most notably the girl scout party and the porn.
I'm not not excited to go home. Home, and engagement party, and New Year's Bash. Don't take this the wrong way. I'm simply, as the French probably don't say, le tired.
I want no Blackberry. I want no schedule requests, I want no fake-pleasant-work voice, I want no movement, I want no nothing. I want to go to a forgotten beach with a book and Ziploc of the painkillers associated with a major surgery.
Not the little Ziploc either. We're talking freezer bag.
I'm not not happy. But I need a few deep breaths. Full time-out, charged to the home team.
I don't need to remember how perfectly absurd and wonderful my life is, because I think about it every day.
Forget the two front teeth....all I want for Christmas is more of the same.
And to me, it doesn't not make sense. And that's all that matters.