Usually by now I have regaled you with tales of fuckers annoying the fuck out of me, my eleventy billion trees and my general *gasp* good humour around this time of year.
Usually I have posted umpteen Twitter squeeeeeeees about Santa and chocolate and all the Margaritas I have consumed.
Usually I have bitched about wrapping weird arsed shaped presents, gloated about my baking prowess – with the photographic proof to make you drool – and waxed lyrical about how fucking AWESOME Christmas is.
But this year is different.
This year my mind is elsewhere, my heart still echoing with loss.
Some of my dear blog friends are swimming in the sea of grief and despair too, and what once was the most happiest time of the year only heightens the fact that there is one less place to set at the celebration table.
So this year, instead of posting some silly greeting on Santa’s arse, I ask you a favour.
While you are surrounded by those you love and gorging on chocolate and your traditional Christmas fare, please take a moment to think of those that are missing someone – their husband, their father, their mother, their grandmother, their child – you know who you are and I will raise a glass for you.
Cause cocktail hour starts as soon as I have finished the cheesecake, chocolate mousse pie and that motherfucking potato salad that takes four billion hours to prepare.
I am planning on being smashed by the time Santa flies over my house.
You can track my inebriation and Santa’s flight path via Norad here.
Merry Christmas. Happy Holidays.
I fucking love yous guys.