Christmas is better when one is alone. After all, one can do whatever one wants. No pressure. I knew the good times were over when my ex and I used to go back to our own place on Christmas night. Even when I talked to ... (aka mom) I was seldom welcome to stay for more than one day or night.
Christmas now is all anticipation. When I stayed at my Dad's apartment in Atlantic Manor (a depressing garden apartment complex if ever there was one) I used to barbecue pink salmon out in the early December chill. The Indians - the ones who owned-worked at the Dunkin' Donuts on the Route 35 circle - played on the other side of the courtyard.
I was a vegan, but the pink salmon was so good it made me a microbe, I mean a macrobe, I mean a joyless macrobiotic eater rather than just a plain joyless vegan.
I'd be so sick afterwards I'd drink detox tea. That was the beginning of the end.
But now I'm so much happier, especially after going through a depression worse than what I experienced during the pink salmon phase.
I woke up this morning and said: "I feel good!"
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment