It's December; Christmas is just around the corner. I'm not sure if my depression simply gets worse at this time of year, or if I suffer from SAD, but December is usually a rough month for me. I'm not a big fan of Christmas, either. It just seems like one big excuse to stuff your face, get drunk a lot, and spend time with people you usually try your best to steer clear of.
Over the last few years, I've developed an accidental ritual of writing a depressing story on Christmas Eve. I wonder if the same thing happens this year, or if I've jinxed it by mentioning it here.
Depression issues aside, the one good thing about Christmas for me is that I get over a week away from the hideous day job, and I get to spend some quality time with my wonderful family. Our son is eight. He still believes in Santa but is starting to doubt the details. He's excited about the whole thing - he claims to have seen Santa and Rudolph once, in the sky above our house, and wants to know if he might see them again. The gifts he'll receive are secondary to him: he's all about the magic.
Oh, how I envy him that.
Meanwhile, here's a festive picture of the Krampus:
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