O Come All Ye Faithless

Christmas is hard.
Ask any psychiatrist. Or bartender.

Even without personal or national tragedy, Christmas is hard.

As a father, I don’t want to preach what I don’t believe, so I can’t get all manger myrrh, and rum pum pum up in here. I respect, even sometimes envy other people’s faith in god, but do not, myself, subscribe to that particular newsletter (this is not an invitation to convert me, btw. I respect your beliefs, please respect mine). I do celebrate Christmas, though. But it’s more like thanksgiving with presents.

What I’m saying is, when I want to yell at the lady who stole my parking spot, or punch the drunk on the bus who won’t leave me alone, I can’t look towards Bethlehem for emotional bulwark-ery. Instead I try to remember that Christmas is hard. We’re all struggling.

Be gentle. Be patient. Be kind.

It’ll all be over in a couple days.

But if you do want to get me something, go here. I wear a size 17 Helmet.

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