Christmas at 25 is like being the ball girl at the tennis club. And no one will let you play..
That's why as much as I hate being hungover as fuck, I continually put myself through an Olympic worthy drinking routine on Christmas Eve. It's kind of a big deal in the hometown. It makes December 25th just that bit more bearable. Knowing I won't have to speak to family members that I don't want to speak to because I'm not all there is an absolute relief and no one really expects anything better from me. Tradition is good. Tradition makes people feel safe. I set the table.
This year was no exception. A hazy memory consisting of snippets of trying to break into pubs and being attacked by 11,000 mosquitoes. Mum's version of events involves me collapsing on the floor at 2am, scratching myself on the carpet, screaming something about Ross River Fever over and over. It sounds about right. And smoking. I don't smoke. And if Mirella found out she would hit me across the face. I've been smacked for less. But that just shows the absolute determination I have to get as shitfaced as possible to avoid any type of responsibility on The Day.
Although my own intentions are somewhat disheartening, I don't want to bring you down with me. There were some good points. Like Santa is rad. He even returns presents before The Day. So to all you lovely people, I hope you all had a very smashing day with your friends and family. Because that's all that really matters. Sometimes a hangover.. just helps.
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