At work, downtime finally concluded. Some pain there. Then some more at the end of the day. My day, at least. Trying to leave. Boom. Hammer drops. Another brief outage. Brief enough to slay the gaming floor and erupt my phone into a series of nasty calls. Rescued the kittens. Declared victory. It's what I do.
We went to my Father-In-Law's house for dinner. And to celebrate Christmas Eve Eve. Some pizza. Some barbecue. Cindy's spinach dip. Swapping of presents. Taking of pictures. Good times with the family, again. No fights or crying. Possibly the easiest, quietest gathering we've had to date. All the kids growing up. No diapers. Or bottles. Everyone happy and pleasant and enjoying the time we have together. All of us. Together.
Had a party to go to, after. But didn't go. Didn't drink. Didn't enjoy myself. Didn't socialize. Didn't see any friends or cohorts. Not worth the drama and mental carnivals. All freakshow and misfits in the wake of me being involved in anything remotely resembling fun. Instead, I sit here and write, on Christmas Eve Eve.
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