And so the week of hell begins.

If you know me, which many of you don't, I am not a holiday person. At all.
I don't do all the celebrating and the caroling and the pretty shiny presents. I just don't do it.
I loathe it.
The second November rolls around, until about the middle of January, I have a permanent knot of dread in my stomach. I've never had a good experience revolving holidays, and especially Christmas.
All it does is stress me out, and cause unnecessary drama.
I'd like to think that my family and I can celebrate our bond and love for one another on our own without all these disgusting endorsements from the mass-media and overpriced chain stores.


Thanksgiving comes with a sense of dread. I know what the next month or so will hold.
The weeks before Christmas are a frenzy, a whirlwind of plastic santas and white frosted trees, and good god, Christmas music.
When the day arrives, it's a blessing and a curse. All of the shopping and preparing and fake cheery smiles have  finally come to an end. But that's when the clean up begins. It's almost as bad as all the crap that went into the mess to begin with.
I'm less bitter towards New Years, the one holiday I can actually stand. If only because it comes with the promise of a new year, and plenty of alcohol.


I tend to put off anything Christmas-related for as long as possible. And, just my luck, everything I have to do regarding the ridiculous day has been crammed into the span of the next teeny tiny 5 days. This week could quite seriously be the death of me. I'll let you know if I survive.