I've never properly had Christmas with a boyfriend or a girlfriend in my life. I came close, one year. Some unyielding force within me yearns to know the closeness of listening to cheesy music, sat beneath mistletoe and slicing into Yule log. I would really like to have this, but I know it won't be this year. I've officially been single for about a year or so, barring the unnamed quantity of four-week distractions here and there, and it sucks so hard. Never does one's mind wander to contemplate loneliness, meaninglessness and the wonder of isolation so much as mine when it knows the sweet chill of rejection, the warm scars of unrequited temptation, or the indifferent numbness of maudlin despondency.
The good news, it won't be entirely in isolation. I will be spending Christmas with this sexy group:
Yeats was sexy in his youth, at least. In a sort of Serverus Snape way. And I know Virginia and I might have had a wonderful time together.
I hope I find someone under the tree this year.
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