Mayhaps

I mean, whatever and shit. Christmas is weird.

Here I am, another Christmas morning, awake by myself for hours as usual, waiting for the hype of the day to consume itself.

I don't even have anything to say here, but writing is a friend so I do it.

Speaking of which: the daily grind is getting that edge to it, that sharp edge that I don't want to acknowledge.

I forgot that writing stories is like a vacation from life, that I write the escape I want to see - so there's that.

I don't have to write for people, just me. I don't have to be so serious... just write.

I think I might look forward to that.

I am grateful that I have people. Christmas would be a lot weirder if I had no one to complain about. So, there is that, too.

Whatever.