I've spent my Christmas break alone at home for . . . geez, at least four years now. Ever since I graduated college, for sure.
There's nothing quite like it. So far today, I've fixed four or five things around the house, ripped into a wall and fixed it, crashed The Sims twice on my computer by tinkering with the code, watched parts of two football games, learned about spyplanes, and spent some time going over the Sacrifice of Five Oblations from the Rigveda Brahmanas. (ferrelux, I'll have some questions for you about that, I imagine.)
I did, though, fall all over again this year. It never ceases to amaze me how indestructable my body really is. Falling, I think, is now a holiday tradition. This year's bruise is about as pretty as last year's, though it'll be a few days before we actually find out for sure which was nicer.
There's a fine way to look at it, though: It's part that there's no one I want to call or spend this holiday with, and it is, perhaps, part that there's no one I can call or spend the cold days with. I'm not sure which takes precedent, or which follows from the other.
Am I alone because I am in that circumstance, or am I in that circumstance because I'm alone? Such thoughts amuse me quite a bit.
Aw, crap. Who knocks on someone's door at 8 PM on Christmas Eve?
That's. . . eerily prophetic. . .
She'd better be cute. . .