Whenever you want, Nilly. No rush whatsoever.

IT CAN BE FICTION, folks

I'm an unmitigated sap about the holidays, though. Even my fictional people get unlimited sugar plums and angels getting their wings. Maybe if I channel Tim Minear...

One reminder from the moderator: IT CAN BE FICTION, folks.

One reason I don't participate in all the drabbles is that I get tired of myself and my angst. So I've tried to twist the past few. Anyway, my escape from holdiay hell.

Christmas cards

Their blood runs through my veins. I don't know them anymore. Haven't seen them in a decade, might not recognize them on the street. They know where I am, I haven't moved in twenty years.

Dread every December: must send cards to Mother and sisters, must continue the pretense, must act as if I care.

The year I say "No more," tears and a weight fall from me. Letters and emails should run both ways, but don't. Blood is not family, genetics is not love. I orphan myself, and it feels like Christmas again.

Connie, that was powerful, and incredibly painful.

Here's one from me just for fun.

Challenge #36: Holiday Hell

Every year it was the same thing. Day in, day out, sitting with the others, faking cheer, trying to ignore the sickening smell of burnt sugar in the air and the damp creeping through his socks.

Black was his favorite color. Or navy blue. Not red, not green. Certainly not white—like the endless frozen blanket outside the window. “So beautiful,” the women cooed. “Like spun sugar!”

He hated sugar. He’d take a fat, greasy burrito over a candy cane any day.

“Nils! You’re falling behind.”

He grunted, staring at the lopsided teddy bear in front of him. “Yes, Santa.”

For what it's worth, my decision re: cards made me feel freer than I had in years.

And now I want to see a Gothy Santa. Except I'm flashing onto the picture of Santa from the card game Xxxenophobia, and I so didn't need to see a pierced Santa.

Nilly, will send.

Susan, received.

Zenkitty, whoa. Strong.

Connie, I basically announced it: no more dead tree cards from me. I'll bake things, but I'm sparing the trees. E-cards to those I love, if I remember to do it.

Funniest Christmas card ever: from the local radio station in Brixton, London, a neighbourhood with a high concentration of West Indian culture and people. This came to all the engineering and media staff at Dolby; we'd fixed the station up with Dolby FM.

Card had a Santa in dark glasses, full dreads (the station manager had posed for it, and he was a not nearly as pretty version of Bob Marley), holding a spliff. Inside? "Merry Christmas, honkies!"

Card made me unbelievably happy.

I orphan myself, and it feels like Christmas again.

Connie, that's wonderful stuff. Very powerful, very true.

AmyLiz, BWAH! I think I'd feel much the same way as Nils.

OMG, whoever said they have no holiday hell, would you adopt me? I don't even eat that much... I'm sitting here thinking *which* hideous story I may tell.

I don't want to tell a holiday hell story. I think I may be cursing myself, by heading into a holiday hell story that tops whatever hell story I write. The SO is all glad to be headed home. Me? Still attitude problem. And I heart my family. I even heart road trips. I told the SO, "I just don't want to fix anybody's computer." Turns out? Already committed. Blargh!

erika, that was me, and I can't adopt you; I already internet-married you, remember?

No holiday hell, over here. Just nice memories of beautiful food and occasional prezzies and things.

Liese! That sucks.

It got that way for my brother -- everytime he came home, he had to work on the car.

He used to love that sort of stuff and it started to make him hate it.