Horse In A Three-Piece Suit

 Last fall, my mom got her first "smart" phone.  She'd had a flip phone for years, struggling along as she does, but got pretty good at maneuvering her way around it's operation and use. Last fall, she finally replaced the aged technology, opting for Apple's iPhone.  Probably a terrible decision, as she hasn't the foggiest idea how to work it, often coming to me for help.  I hate Apple and can't figure out how it's technology makes any sense.  I have a strong and healthy dislike for Apple products, which is too lengthy and involved to discuss in this forum.  Suffice it to say, words in the English language can't describe how much disdain I possess for the Apple company.

So when my mother comes rushing to me, half in tears and in a deep-seated panic, most of the time I tell my mom to Google it.  I've remarked for years how one can find just about anything on Google.  Like the Land of Oz, Google is an amazing and wonderous place.

My friend D__ was telling me about his son, D_____, who is constantly bombarding him with questions about this and queries about that.  D_____ is a young man, entering the scary world of adulthood, so naturally he has a million-and-one questions.  His father, my friend, D__, told him to Google whatever he wants to know.  When told about this conversation, I responded with "Oh hell yeah.  You can literally find anything on Google.  Case and point:  A horse wearing a three piece suit.

Horse in a 3-piece suit.

Need I say more?

Man sits atop a horse
in a 3-piece suit.

Terrorism

 

The dictionary defines "terrorism" as: The unlawful use of violence and intimidation, especially against civilians, in the pursuit of political gains.  Google's explanation of the term goes a little deeper, saying: Terrorism is the use of fear and acts of violence to intimidate societies, governments or against an ideology. Many different types of social or political organizations may use terrorism in an attempt to achieve their goals. Google then goes on to explain; People who do the terrorism are called terrorists.  That part could have gone unsaid as the first thing that came to mind was 'DUH!'.

Now I could go on in this piece to point out instances of terrorism that proved itself pointless and alike, but everyone knows much of the big events and don't need my fat ass reminding them of that.  Plus, when I really sat back and thought about it, I had to admit that I didn't actually know that much about what terrorism was and is.

This all began this morning.  I've been watching a lot of video game play through's as of late on the YouTube.  A lot of war and shit like that, usually from the perspective of American servicemen.  I thought why aren't other world Armed Forces represented in the video game world.  They could make campaigns from an Australian perspective.  Or British or Israeli or...  Then I thought ISIS?  Without glamorizing the latter, video game makers could just make them all goofy and stereotypical. Design them to be stupid as f*ck.  Then again, in the social climate that our society lives in, some asshole would claim to be offended, to which I say: Unless you're a terrorist, yourself, who gives a shit?! I laid in bed, 6:30am, thinking about this stupid shit.

How would I define terrorism, based on the limited knowledge that I possess?  Essentially, it's a group of people who frown on another group's happiness and joy, who feel it necessary to shit on those freedoms by blowing shit up and inflicting fear.... Or terror.  In the simplest of terms, they're a bunch of assholes.  And poorly dressed ones at that. That last part is purely my own belief.  I'm not very stylish, myself, and shouldn't cast stones on poor choices of apparel.

The dictionary defines the word "contentment" as: A state of happiness or satisfaction.  Based on personal observation only, looking at the state of many Middle Eastern countries who are bombarded with Acts of Terrorism on a nearly daily basis, don't appear to be very happy places, but I imagine the peace loving citizens make due in the environments in which they live.  Plus, the shitty state of their country may be due to the terrorist factions continually blowing shit up.  I don't know.  It's pretty f*cked up.

Looking upon these words, it becomes pretty f*cking clear that the events that unfolded on January 6th, 2021 in Washington, DC and the attacks on the State Senate, appear to be, by all definition, an Act of Terror, but I could be mistaken on account that the government refused to punish the instigator of that terrorist act.

Goes without saying.  This kind of bullshit needs to end.  Not just the terrorism expressed by pajama wearing assholes who blow shit up in hopes of nailing 40 virgins in the afterlife (& let's be honest, that bullshit isn't happening), but the homegrown terrorists, too.  Redneck assholes holed-up in shanties and log cabins throughout Montana and all those other scarcely populated areas.  Or those gangland idiots who runs the streets of our major metropolis' with a gat in their hand or an AK.  Just a distasteful lot, all of them.

I don't have a means to an end.  No magic ideology that everyone can get behind in a sense of global unity.  That will never happen except in the science fiction movies and that's all FICTION.

The dictionary defines "science fiction" as: Science fiction (sometimes shortened to sci-fi or SF) is a genre of speculative fiction that typically deals with imaginative and futuristic concepts such as advanced science and technology, space exploration, time travel, parallel universes, and extraterrestrial life.  Perhaps in a parallel universe, but I doubt I'll ever see some sort of World Peace in my lifetime.  I could add the definition of "World Peace", but I think that's just a pipe dream.

Broken

 

I am a broken man.  Broken in so many ways, physically and otherwise.  I've endured torn muscles and broken bones, the worst of which, came in 2014, when I broke three vertebrae in my back.  My T3, T4 and T5 all receiving compression fractures after a platform that I was standing on, dropped.  Up to that point, that was the worst pain I'd ever endured.  Mere walking, after that point, was painful and laboured.  I was forced to take soft slow and methodical steps as any harsh impact on the ground or floor would result in a xylophone effect, of sharp dagger-like pain, shooting up my spine to the base of my skull and down my legs.  It's not something I'd wish on anyone.  Eventually, through physiotherapy and exercise, I was able to walk... normal-ish and without most of the pain.  It's still something that I deal with on a day-by-day basis.  I was told that the injured vertebrae would never heal completely and any plans that I might have had for adventure, would have to be avoided for the rest of my life.  So no skydiving or bungee jumping for me and to be truthful, I'm quite fine with that.

Up to that point, that was the most severe pain and, might I say, injury, as years later I would take a nasty spill in a parking lot, which knocked my fat ass out, in the process.

On a cool March evening in 2018, I'd just returned back at the warehouse where I was a courier.  The man-door by the overhead was busted and we would have to walk to the next bay to enter via that door.  In the cool darkness, I was unable to see the ground clearly, which resulted in my taking a nasty fall, thus knocking myself out in the process.  I was unconscious for nearly twenty minutes.  I know because I was happy about returning early that night.  I had arrived at the warehouse a little past 7:30pm, my usual time was mostly closer to 10pm.  When I came to, I was shivering and cold.  I reached for my phone that was in my hand, but now laying on the ice.  I was shocked to see that the clock was reading nearly 8pm.  I don't remember a lot after that.  I recall texting my boss to give him shit about being so cheap and not buying any sidewalk salt, then nothing.  I don't remember going home, nor do I recall coming back to work the next day or most of my 1000-plus kilometer delivery route the next day.  In fact, I don't remember anything up until I found myself sitting in a lab waiting to give a blood test for an unrelated thing.  That's when fear overwhelmed me and I sought out medical attention.

Over the course of my life, I've probably had a grand total of (at least) 10-12 concussions, but by definition alone, I suspect that I many have had quite a few more.  The worst prior to this event, occurred following a snowmobile accident, where I slammed my head so hard that the helmet I was wearing, split in two pieces.  I never received any medical attention at that time, my family telling me to go lay down (before anyone says anything, I know now that this was a really bad idea).  The result of that injury was just a slurry of massive headaches and migraines.  The brain injury in 2018, was much much (MUCH) worse and the lasting effects are quite intrusive and bothersome.

At the time of the slip and fall, I was experiencing a loss of vision, loss of balance, both short-term and long-term memory loss, slurred speech, an inability to remember or form complex words, and a lack of attention.  Years earlier, I'd been diagnosed with ADD.  Back in high school it was called something else, daydreaming or as my dad called it back then, "stupid".  I've always had a problem with focusing on things, which includes a learning disability.  I can learn quickly how to do things when I see it done physically or visually, but I'm unable to read anything, comprehend it and put it to use.  This is probably why I was almost in tears when I met wrestling legend, Mick Foley.  His books were and remain, the only books I've been able to read and comprehend as I was reading them.  For those of you who take this ability for granted, will never know that magic of this feeling.

Keeping my attention has always been a challenge, but since that fateful day, my attention span has been greatly challenged.  Just yesterday, I was picking up some butter for my mother and had to call her three times to ask the same question.  That's the long-term result that frustrates me most about this injury.

Through physiotherapy, I was able to restore most of my mobility in that, I no longer have balance issues, although I remain somewhat clumsy to a degree.  The headaches aren't quite as extreme as they were in the weeks following the fall.  At that time, I was forced to wear sunglasses almost constantly, when I was outside of my house.  The glaring sun and indoor lights would create a vise-like grip on my frontal lobe that would almost bring me to tears.

My speech would return, also, although I've noticed a severe stutter that rears it's ugly head from time-to-time, which is added frustration, which in-turn causes more stuttering.  Then when I'm not stuttering, but attempting to engage in conversation, I find myself struggling to remember or form certain words.  Not even complex words or as my friend, Danny calls them, "$10 words", but simple vocabulary is almost non-existent. 

I was tested a number of years ago, kind of a aptitude test of sorts.  They tested my mathematical, mechanical, literary and vocalization skills.  I failed to do well on the reading, as per my ADD, but scored well on the (basic) math and mechanical tests, but the vocalization, which I was told referred to my conversational skills.  That my verbiage skills were in the top twenty-one percentile for my age group.  When pressed, they further explained it as me being "smarter" than seventy-nine percent of those in my age grouping.  If I were to take that test today, I doubt that I'd perform quite as well.

Physiotherapy managed to restore most of my abilities prior to my concussion and for that I'm eternally grateful, but something that hasn't been restored, is my memory.  Both short-term and long-term is going to be effected for the remainder of my life, I'm told.  I find this aspect of my recovery to be the most worrisome.  Everyday is a struggle to remember simple chores and responsibilities.  Remembering how to travel to destinations where I've been a thousand times before, is a struggle some days.  I feel shame and stupid when I fight to remember.  Then other times, when I remember something, I feel like I've won the lottery.  Even the most insignificant memory, to me, is an incredible feeling.

I was pushing snow off my driveway the other day, when I was reminded of the time, as a little kid, my mom bought me and my sister snow shovels.

I grew up on a farm.  We didn't have anything like a snow blower or a blade on the front of a truck or tractor.  Instead, my dad used a scoop shovel, that he'd normally used for shoveling grain in the storage bins* that lined the hill on our property.  My dad would clear the snow out of the yard and the lane that connected the yard to the highway.  For some reason, that day, my sister and I, convinced my mom to buy us a snow shovel each, to go help our dad.  I remember the look on my dads face as we proudly marched out to the yard to help shovel snow, and the look of disappointment when we gave up on that endeavour, because it wasn't as fun as he'd made it look.  That memory flooded my brain the other morning, bringing a smile to my frozen face. (*It took me quite a few minutes to remember the word "bins", in the construct of that sentence.)

My biggest frustration, more so than the ability to access memories, is convincing others, some friends, but mostly family members that I can't remember what they're talking about.  Just the other night, my mother was telling me something that (apparently) I was a part of, but when I revealed that I had no recollection of the incident, I was met with conflict and accusations of untruthfulness.  I was accused of lying because I couldn't remember any facts about a family dinner we'd all attended many years prior.  I hate that.  I f**king hate that.

When I broke my back, I was unable to do this or that, as such injuries often restrict those with the injury.  My sister refused to believe that my injury was as severe as it was, stating that "if your back was broken, you'd be paralyzed".  She's obviously misinformed.  My sister is also one of those who accuse me of deceit whenever I'm unable to recall certain facts or elements of a story.

I've been injury free, brain-wise, in the years since that fateful night when I knocked myself unconscious in a parking lot.  I have a little PTSD from it, nervously venturing outside in the winter, for fear of falling again and possibly further injuring my brain.  I've taken a few nasty falls during this time frame, but my head has not been effected.  My struggles to remember continue and I celebrate them when memories return.  I've been known to say the words, "Praise The Positive" which was a silly thing some friends used to say when making drink toasts, but rings truthful these days.  As bad as things get in my life, I choose to praise the positives whenever they appear.  It's like discovering life all over again.

The Most Overrated Band in History

 

I was perusing my Twitter the other day (@ToontownJuggalo, for anyone interested) and came across a tweet from WWE commentator, Corey Graves who mentioned that the Canadian band RUSH, sucked.  I can't remember his exact wording, but the message essentially translated to them sucking.  I concurred, adding another band, which I'll mention later on.

Fast-forward to this morning.  The phone rang at an alarmingly early time, which isn't that late for normal functioning adults, but being that I'm not working until springtime, 8am is too early for this guy.  The radio was playing the Electric Light Orchestra, ELO for short, song "Don't Bring Me Down".  I f*cking detest this song.  It's SO f*cking annoying, I can't believe it was ever popular.  Sadly, it's only saving grace is a part of why it's so annoying.  The chorus chimes "Don't bring me dooown, Groos!  Don't bring me doooown, Groos!"  I don't know what a "groos" is, but thankfully, it sounds like "UCE!", which is a Samoan word for "brother" or "bro" (I've seen definitions referring to either meaning).  As a long standing wrestling fan, I can appreciate the term, as it's often repeated by WWE's resident Samoan members, The Uso's and their cousin, the "Head of the Table", as he's known as of late, Roman Reigns.  The ELO song, however, remains as one of my most hated songs, but it's not the worst song.  That honour goes to the 1980's questionable hit, "Come On Eileen" by the one-hit wonders, Dexy's Midnight Runners. No matter where I am, what obstacles may be lying between me and that radio dial, when the first couple of notes float into the air, I will stop at nothing to switch the station or shut the radio off.  It is the WORST!!  

Growing up, I remember hearing music that I never cared for.  Most of Queen's library would have been included in that category, but later in life, I learned to like it and even love it.  The song "Radio Ga Ga" was one that I remember listening to on the way to school and absolutely detesting it, yet when it comes on the radio these days, I crank up the volume and belt out the lyrics at the top of my lungs.  It's a song hated by most die hard Queen fans or so I've heard, but I absolutely love it.  That Dexy's Midnight Runners song has never, nor will it ever appeal to me.

Earlier, I mentioned that I concurred with Corey Graves' assessment that the Canadian rock trio, RUSH sucked and I stand by that statement.  I've never liked the band, but I can tolerate that garbage.  Mostly because I've been able to change the lyrics in my head, to make the drivel more enjoyable.  There's one song of theirs that comes on the radio, from time-to-time, that I call "My New Brown Pants".  I don't know the name of the RUSH song, but singing "My new brown pants" as loud as I can, makes me laugh.  If I'm unable to change the station, this is a pleasant consolation prize.

Also mentioned earlier, I commented that I concurred with Graves' comment and added another group.  This has been met with much pushback for many years, although, not so much in recent memory.  It's no secret for those who know me.  I hate The Beatles.

I've always laid the claim that The Beatles are (probably) the MOST overrated band in history.  Many, and I do mean many, people have disagreed with me on this subject, one fellow, a former co-worker, even threatened to fight me if I didn't take back the claim.  I didn't and he didn't follow through with his threat.  The only song that the mop-headed quartet ever did that I do, in fact, enjoy and maybe even love, is "I Wanna Hold Your Hand".  As for the rest of the catalogue...  Well, that's complicated.  While I find the band highly overrated, they did manage to write some great songs, which have been (more) expertly covered by other bands.  Motley Crue's version of "Helter Skelter" is a great song!  Aerosmith's rendition of "Come Together" is practically flawless.  As well as many other bands and solo artists, too many to list here, have covered many Beatle tunes and done so with greatness.  The Beatles, however..., not so much.

A year or two ago, I will admit this.  I was watching The Late Late Show with James Cordon who caught up with Sir Paul McCartney in Liverpool and they did this huge Carpool Karaoke segment, touring around Liverpool, reliving some fond memories, finishing with an impromptu concert in a local drinking tavern.  First revealed to a dozen or so, local residents which soon swarmed to several hundred or more, packing into the tiny bar and listening from outside.  I found the whole thing to be overwhelmingly sweet.  Mostly because they hold McCartney in such high regard and had an opportunity to see this living legend perform live in their neighbourhood pub.  It was pretty cool, but I came away from that experience with a tear in my eye and retaining the belief that The Beatles are the most overrated band in history.

I'm not claiming to be an expert on what is best or superior in music, past or present.  I know what I like and I don't mind announcing what I don't like.  I love the Insane Clown Posse.  Most people don't.  Mostly because the name alone, scares them away.  However, when people tell me that I'm wrong for liking them for whatever reason, I don't get upset.  I don't honestly care.  "They suck!!" people say, trying to get a reaction, to which I always reply "It's a matter of opinion" and really, that's all it is.  Maybe The Beatles aren't as terrible as I think.  Maybe RUSH is a great band.  I doubt it, but maybe.  One thing is for sure.  Dexy's Midnight Runners' "Come On Eileen" is the absolute WORST.  That and country music.  I feel sorry for anyone who listens to that horse shit!!

It's No Secret

 

It's not a secret that I hide from anyone.  It's just a matter of fact.  A part of the lifestyle I choose to live, these days.  Years ago, before it was formally legalized, I would partake in the consumption of marijuana on a extremely part time basis.  If a friend had some, we'd share a joint.  Later on, I found a supplier and decided to do my own experimentation.

I suffer from seasonal depression.  It's something I've battled for more years than I can count.  Not something that my family or closest peers were ever aware of.  I'm not an idiot, doing my due diligence before moving forward and learning that cannabis can reduce or even eliminate depression.  So that first winter, I smoked whenever I was feeling down and it perked me right up.  Sadly, the more I learned about cannabis, the more I realized that my "supplier" knew nothing.  When I made my last purchase from him, I asked if it was a Sativa or an Indica strain and he blankly looked at me and told me he didn't know what either of those words meant. 

Sativa is the strain that perks you up and Indica is the strain that mellows you the f**k out.  Easiest way to remember is what I learned from the comedian, Doug Benson, who quoted "Indica is like 'in-da-couch'."

In the end, I'm not sure what it was that I received from the "supplier", but rest assured, the depression was suppressed.  So imagine my joy when marijuana was legalized in Canada.  The ease of walking into a legitimate business and conducting myself in an open manner.  Plus, now dealing with people who not only know the good and bad effects of the merchandise they're selling.  Nowadays, I'm able to customize the effects that I hope to achieve upon consumption.  Back in the old days, it was like spinning the tumbler on a six-shooter in a game of Russian Roulette.  Spark up and hope for the best.  One night, as I recall, I was quite gleeful, as I cooked up about 2lbs of bacon and consumed it all.  Another time, I got horribly sick, almost like I'd had an allergic reaction.  I couldn't function for about a week. 

These days, I choose to go the route of vaping the cannabis.  It's easier and more compact.  I don't have to empty the chamber and clean my unit every time I wish to smoke dried product as I do with my one device, but simply screw the vape cartridge into the battery I purchased and I'm off to the races.

Gone are the munchies, although I do keep a supply of snacks on hand that require little, if any, effort to prepare, so there's no danger of burning down my house.  No more anxiety or depression.  All that is left is relaxation, happy times and a flurry of ideas and expressions.  The stuff that makes me laugh like an idiot, I often will share to Facebook and Twitter.  Share my idiocy with the world, hoping that no one will steal any of it.

Sadly, there is also a downside...  It's nothing dangerous, mind you, but simply inconvenient.  Prime example is last night.  I was inspired to write a genius blog.  I had the introduction written in my head.  I had many musings and references to make and even a title, which is usually the most difficult factor to come up with, aside from subject matter.  I'd consumed just enough cannabis to know, however, that I was unable to write anything last night, for fear it'd come out like gibberish.  Even now, I question how legitimate this blog sounds, and I'm 100% clean and sober and the moment.

I'm not afraid to admit to smoking dope.  It's not illegal.  Hell, cannabis, despite all the idiot warning labels that the government imposes onto packaging, marijuana is not dangerous to your health.  Cannabis is a necessary tool that I use to escape my demons and depression.  That is all.  Well....  It IS fun, too.  I won't lie about that.

Heads Or Tails: Is There A Preferred Difference?

Butter chicken on a bed of Basmati rice.  That's what I had for dinner, last night.  Quite a tasty treat, until a few hours later when I burped and the taste was not equal to that which I'd consumer hours earlier.  I like the sweet sharpness of the curried chicken, but add in stomach acid, when it revisits my taste pallet later, it's horrifying.

Grape, 7-up, Cream Soda, or Cherry Coke, I think my favourite flavour to come up with a throaty belch, would undoubtedly be that of Root Beer.  The fizzy sweetness is still present for doubling down on the refreshing taste.  A second to that would most likely be from a chocolate milkshake.  Drink one of those too fast and you don't have to wait the formality of a couple hours.  One burp of that chocolatey goodness, will bring a smile to your face like no other. 😋

I enjoy burping.  The louder and more obnoxious, the better.  It's a gift that I don't mind sharing with all those around me.  What elevates the enjoyment of not excusing myself afterward.  The disturbed looks of utter disgust is unequalled until they realize that I'm not going to excuse myself, then the appearance of ultimate revulsion warms over their face like a plague.  This brings unbridled joy to me. 😊

I used to like farts, too.  Especially the "silent-but-deadly" variety.  Sidling up to an unsuspecting person in a crowd and unleashing the stealthy fury, then quietly watching the panic and disgust as the victim flees to escape the unrelenting wrath.  Some people are good at video games...  I choose to hone my skills in other ways.  While this isn't something that can be enjoyed by masses, unless video recorded then shown on the Your Mom's House podcast, peppered with laughter from main mommies, Tom Segura and Christina P, the joy is retained to just me.  My fondest moment of this is standing in line to clock out at a job.  It was my last day at a job I did not enjoy.  I quietly broke wind just as a young Filipino woman strode up behind me.  There was a slight pause, before I heard her sweet accent utter the words, "Oooh.  Ees SO steenky."  I looked back to witness her face all scrunched up, like an old potato left on the kitchen counter for too long and her hand waving franticly in an effort to clear her sinuses.

A nice loud and boisterous fart is nice, too, but they scare me.  I'm at an age, now, where if I attempt to force out a loud booming fart, there's likely going to be some shrapnel that accompanies the flatulence.  Sharting is NOT enjoyable, by any means.  I'm sure there are some crazies out there who do enjoy the warm pasty feeling filling their shorts when a squirt happens, but not this guy.  Homey ain't playin'.  False alarms do happen.  I'm sure everyone has squeezed out a fart and it felt like something wasn't as it should be, but upon further investigation, happily learn that the fart was a dry one.  When this happens to me, I always buy a lottery ticket, before that luck runs out.  Overall, the quiet farts are awesome, but I don't know if I'd call that my favourite.

Sour burps suck.  Any time that stomach acid comes up to say "hello", sucks big time.  These always worry me, as my father suffered from "sour burps" for many years, drinking back glass upon glass of baking soda and water as a means to appease the indigestion that he was experiencing.  If only he had visited his physician and had some tests done, then perhaps they would have discovered the Esophageal Cancer that was forming in his throat and he could have been treated in time and survived having cancer.  Chalk that up to 20/20 hindsight.

Like flipping a coin.  Heads or tails.  Which do I prefer, overall?  Do I enjoy the intensity of a hearty belch or the grunginess of a nasty fart?  It's obvious I've done a lot of thinking on this matter.  More than a normal person would or should.  During the pandemic, I don't have a lot of things to occupy my time, so my thoughts tend to wander and when it does, it tends to question things that the normal mind may never conceive.  That's just a part of my charm, I suppose.

The verdict:  I'm going to have to say I like burping over farting.  Mainly because it's something that even an unsuspecting bystander can enjoy.  That's me.  Bringing happiness and joy to the masses during these trying times in the Coronavirus Pandemic, as well as the years to come. 😁

 

The Magic of Christmas

 

I remember it was the last day of school, before the Christmas break.  I was riding the school bus, and it was snowing.  Lovely big poofy snowflakes, covering the street and the windshield.  I was so excited for the Season to commence.  There was a true feeling of magic that filled the air.  Intoxicating, in a way, as it filled my thoughts with what might become of things over the next week or two.

I cannot pinpoint the moment when I realized that the magic that comes with the Christmas season died for me.  When I stopped looking toward the end of December with wonderment in my soul.  That feeling of good will being expressed from one person to another, without any expecting anything in return.  Being nice, simply for the act of being nice.  I'm not sure when that all died for me, but it's gone.  Missing from my life and I think it's something that I'd like back.

I remember the week after my birthday (which is November 29th), our family would venture into the city, to purchase a Christmas tree.  This was the first step in creating happy Christmas memories.  The tree would come home with us and spend the night in the bathtub for all the snow to melt off.  The small restroom would be flooded with the smell of pine and spruce.  The next day, the tree would be raised in the corner of the living room and we'd all take turns placing our favourite decorations after my mother had strung the coloured lights.  Of course, I'd be pushed aside by my sister and my mother, as they've done my entire life in regards to everything, followed by the claim that "You're not doing it right!"  Once complete, the tree would be the sole source of light in the living room and whether I played a big part or not in it's decorating, I marveled in it's glow.

Next would come the colourfully wrapped gifts, but because we didn't have a lot of money, growing up, many of the gifts were wrapped in the very same paper, presenting in a somewhat monotone collection of gifts.

Many Christmas' were rung in with Christmas spirits, only it was never the ghosts of Christmas past, present or future, but more so of the alcoholic brand.  Many o' Christmas memories were speckled with arguments and fights, really instilling that Good Will vibe into people.  I don't think that growing up in an alcohol-infused family is what killed Christmas for me.

If I had to guess, it may have been in high school.  There was an event, shall we say, that split up our family.  I moved out of the house, because I no longer felt safe in that environment.  It's a long story and perhaps I'll share it one day, but not today.

I remember being at my aunt's house when I was given a gift from my sister.  It was a T-shirt which I was quite displeased with and threw it back, claiming it wasn't good enough.  The next gift came a week later and it was something else that flipped my switch and I threw that back, too.  It was then that I realized that I was being a supreme asshole.  That a gift is something that someone sees and hopes that the recipient will like.  Having it thrown back in a fit of rage, has to be heartbreaking and from that point on, I changed my tune, as it were.  I would come to accept that second gift, which was a cassette of Bon Jovi's Slippery When Wet.  I wasn't a fan of Bon Jovi, but whatever.  It's the thought that counts, right?

In the years and decades since, I've treated the gift exchanges as just that.  I don't honestly care if I receive a gift or not.  The only real gift I get that warms the cockles of my heart, is when I am able to purchase a gift that the recipient shows genuine affection and appreciation for.

Nowadays, Christmas is an occasion for my nephews.  They're young and I don't know if they understand the true nature of what the Christmas season is supposed to be about, but when I'm able to give something that truly brings wonderment to their face, it's magical.  This isn't something that I've gotten from them in a few years now.  In an effort to not create jealousy between the two boys, I try to purchase similar gifts.  I believe that the younger of the two boys, emulates his older brother and by giving similar gifts, I'm avoiding any jealousy or unwanted tension.  Maybe I'm wrong.  We shall see, this year, but the strategy hasn't happened in the last couple.

Christmas is for the kids.  Maybe that's what happened to me.  I grew up too quick.  The magic was lost due to too many birthdays.

When my little boy, Monkey (*Monkey is a cat, for anyone who doesn't know), came to live with me, that first Christmas was the best.  He was asleep upstairs in bed, while I snuck downstairs and placed a cat tree in the corner of the front room.  I returned to bed and we slept the night away.  In the morning, we came downstairs and I acted all bewildered and confused, while he investigated the new item taking up space in the house.  I ran upstairs to grab my camera, to take a photo of him playing with the feather that hung underneath, but by the time I'd returned, Monkey had that feather ripped off the underside of the tree and pieces of feather was strewn all around the room.  The boy works fast, but seeing how much joy he was having with that cat tree, warmed my heart.  That was the magic that I'd lost so many years before.

Nowadays, Christmas is a struggle.  I can't find that magic that I so desperately crave.  I'm a single fella with just a cat at my side.  Maybe I need something else to fulfill my life.  Maybe a special someone who possesses that magic...  Or maybe, magic is just and illusion.