Christmas for most is a time of family and presents and good will towards everyone but that fucker who cut you off on the highway. It’s those things for me too but another thread that runs consistently through my Christmas celebrations is some sort of illness. It varies from year to year but somehow, in some way, I will be sick on Christmas, and with the holiday a mere day away, the sugarplums that should be in my head (whatever the hell those are) have been replaced with massive amounts of snot.

As a kid this trend was less of a bother because a kid can be on his or her death bed and still jump up and down screaming when it’s time to open presents. But as the years have progressed and my enthusiasm for everything has diminished and my Christmas responsibilities have increased, it’s become a real drag. And it’s so recurring that one has to wonder if it’s psychosomatic (especially with a neurotic like myself) but at times the illness has been so debilitating that psychological disturbance couldn’t possibly be responsible.

The worst was something like five or six years ago during which I was stricken with the worst case of flu I think I’ve ever had. I had a raging fever, was vomiting constantly, and only spoke in confused broken sentences. My memories from that Yule tide hell are spotty at best but a few moments persist in my memory and playback with the slow motion detail of a near death experience. I remember, for example, being propped up on the couch in a daze as little kids piled presents on me with screeching enthusiasm. I also remember being expected to open presents and while I got an iPod, the flood of warmth I felt was a shivering surge of fever and I believe I lost consciousness. Finally I remember being in the car late on Christmas Eve as Shannon drove us to her parents house. I was doubled over in pain, moaning and crying, begging her to take me to the hospital.

So if it’s just a cold this year, I figure that’s pretty good. It could have been swine flu instead which, with my holidazed history, would probably kill me. And so, as you gather with friends and family, know that in my cloudy snot filled head, I’m wishing you and yours a healthy and happy holiday.

Merry Christmas.

Ok, if someone actually read my blog, that person might be quick to point out that I posted three entries and then disappeared. If that person were also an authority on blogging, social media, or self-indulgent cries for help, it might also be noted that this is a great way to guarantee that I never get a reader or that a general lack of response de-incentivized the process for me and without a quick easy reward I’d never continue (again, destroying any chance of getting a reader).

Well fuck that guy. I’ve said from the outset that this blog is for me to spew words when my words need spewing and like most spew, it is probably not meant for consumption by anybody but the dog (or, depending on your definition of spew, a girl who swallows). The truth is, 2009 has been the worst year of my life and I’ve just been too busy or too depressed to post anything. So fuck you, theoretical opinionated bastard. I’ll spew when I’m good and ready (which is right now, I guess).

It’s hard for me to elaborate on why 2009 has been so terrible as some of it is classified but in broad strokes, it’s something like this: Every second of every day is spent doing what I have to do with no end or reward in sight. Now sure, lots of people say that sort of thing but in my case, it’s absolutely true. I work all the time, I’m broke, I have four kids, my wife works long hours, we can’t afford daycare, everything we own is broken, the cat’s bulimic, my wife swears like a sailor, I’m only as good as my last tv commercial, I work artistically unrewarding freelance jobs ‘cause I’m broke but I have to stay up late to finish them because of the demanding kids, I dream of independent projects but have no time to create them, my commute is an hour long, there’s a million reasons we can’t have sex, there’s nowhere to masturbate, I haven’t been out socially during this presidency, the answering machine is maxed out with collections calls, I have unread mail from July, and I’ve become very fat.

I just keep thinking to myself, “this is how it happens. Life just wears you down until your dreams are forgotten and the lawn is a topic of serious concern.” And maybe that is how it goes for some. But what I’m noticing about myself is that even without a chance to create, the inspiration to try is ever present and in that observation I find some hope. Maybe this stage of my life can be waited out and when I emerge at the other side I’ll take a breath and find I’m still me and I can still make…things.

Until then, I endure in semi-silent suffering, crushed by the weight of innumerable responsibilities, serving in perpetuity, trapped in my head, and sucked dry by parasites.