My parents used to always complain every Christmas morning that I slept in far too long. I guess they always wanted one of those cute commercial scenes when the kid wakes their parents up every 5 minutes from 3am on, desperate to open his presents. Instead, my family's Norman Rockwell painting usually consisted of my father pounding on my bedroom door screaming at me to get the hell out of bed so we could start our merry fucking family Christmas while my mother could be heard in the background pacing back and forth crying and asking God what she ever did to deserve such lazy children.

So imagine the look on their faces had they seen me this Christmas morning, staggering from bed at roughly 1pm. The only pounding this holiday was the post gin binge jackhammer behind my right eye. After a short stint of dry retching in the toilet, I surveyed the room to confirm that Santa does in fact not exist.

He doesn't.

With that done I flopped onto the couch with a cup of joe and finished watching a film about female genital mutilation in Africa that I hadn't finished the night before. I realize that this might not be the most politically correct thing for me to say, but there really isn't anything else like a film about female genital mutilation in Africa to make you feel a whole lot better about spending a Christmas alone.

Luckily I clean up well as I was expected at my sister-in-law's parent's place for Christmas dinner. Luckily my brother and his wife being in town coincided perfectly with there being no one else in town better for me to hang out with, so I took them up on their invite. During the next four hours I meet a lot of people whose names I forgot as soon as the hand shake ended. I also drank far too many beers and am convinced I'm now going to be known as "my daughter's brother-in-law never invited to a family function again."

So, yeah, I guess that's it then. Call me when you get back in town. I want my presents.