Christmas time is a mystical time for me, not in a religious way but in a melancholy and tenderly painful way. For me it is the ultimate family holiday... on the Fourth we tell ourselves a big national story about Who We Are and on St. Patrick's Day Irish-Americans tell themselves and others Who We Are and during Christmas families reenact and retell themselves over and over that This Is What We Do. Christian or not there's no school and everyone expects a gift and you better stick close to home. Once my dad married my stepmother these Christmas decorations became part of What We Do, and those dear with the candles fused to their backs protecting the baby Jesus? They became my brothers.

This picture is the reason for the season. This is what I did tonight--that's text, baby, there's some cropping in that thing--and it makes a terrific screensaver! I had time to do this tonight because I got dissed. I got dissed by someone I met via the internet whose pickup line was "I like books." Seriously? Books? What is wrong with me? He told me the books he likes and they are dry, anyway, all nonfiction, with one of those Bill Bryson Idiot's guide-type books thrown in. Whatever. This proves to me ONCE and FOR ALL that books are for chumps. Anyone who identifies themselves by book love can't love them in the sad, secretive, possessive way of the truly obsessed.

The internet dating ocean, valiantly braved by me for one whole month, is too choppy for a Saint. So that's it, people, believers, lovers--no more books and no more searching for companionship. I brave yet another cold winter alone, with only my scissors, my Lord, and the constant loop of 'Cruel to Be Kind' by Nick Lowe playing in my head.