’tis the @$#$% season

now THERE’s a Christ-like sentiment if there ever was one . . .

exhausted . . . knowing that I will have to try to get 45 Christmas cards written and mailed on the 22nd . . . too much sleep . . . not enough sleep . . . a pukey virus one day before the free prime rib Christmas luncheon at work (therefore limited enjoyment of said prime rib) . . . having it really hit me that the beckster is gone . . . post-anesthesia exacerbation of depression and the fear that instills in me . . . my therapist picking the wrong time to pull her “tough-love” cognitive bullshit on me . . . wanting to hide until it’s all over . . .

but a few more days, and it really will be all over. at least, the false cheerfulness, the pop-up ads and e-mails in my inbox reminding me, “THERE’S STILL TIME” (to buy the gifts I wasn’t going to buy anyway), the “hail-fellow-well-met” joviality [I was struck by what I felt was an absolutely incongruous level of light-heartedness at my pdoc’s office the other day–it was what could only be referred to as . . . festive. I wanted to scream, “YOU ARE HERE TO TREAT PEOPLE WHO ARE DEALING WITH MOOD DISORDERS! STOP BEING HAPPY, DAMN IT!” (insert politically incorrect comment about the staff dipping into the anti-depressant samples here.)], my personal phobia of having to wish co-workers and others a “Merry Christmas” . . . a few more days, and I will be able to put it all behind me for another year.

happy birthday, Jesus . . . I’m sorry about the mess we’ve made of this day that should’ve belonged to You . . .

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