A Holiday Soliloquy 

To deck the halls or to not deck the halls.
That is the question. Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the lights and tinsel of outrageous brilliance, or to stay dark against a sea of Yule Tides, and by opposing, say "Humbug?" Yeah, somewhere an Literature professor is dying just a little on the inside. That's ok, his skin should char to a golden brown.

Put an apple in his mouth and serve him up before guests. They'll all compliment you on you unique table arrangement. You'll be a Holiday hero. You can thank me; it's my holiday gift to you. That was us over the holidays: always giving, always into the spirits. Me? I'm the dry grinch.

Ok, not really, I love Christmas, but it's such a giving holiday. When I'm the only ghost wandering these halls it hardly seems worth my wile to be festive—and I am quite wiley. I'm so wiley there's a reindeer, or a goat, or a coyote, or something named after me. A soda? That would be cool. The point is (and yes like all good epics, there is a point) I've been vacillating over whether or not to do the whole Christmas extravaganza year. I like it, but it's a lot of work, and well, it's just me. It's better when you have somebody to do it for. That much labor for me? I'm not really worth it. I mean I'm a good guy and all, but twinkling light worthy? Then there's the choir of angels for the lawn.
Do you know how much singing angels cost over the holiday? Probably not gonna happen this year. Maybe I can pretend it's just some dark time of morning, and not just a blend of self pity and laziness in my nog. I still might have lit up it if I were doing the writers' group Christmas party.

Then at least I'm glowing for them. But this year, somebody else is hosting the party. She volunteered, and I'm gonna let her do it. I still have to organize it. Seems I'm the one with the master list of emails. I'm important.
I think that's the biggest struggle during a divorce, especially over the holidays: remembering that I'm important. I mean once you peel past the layers of bitterness and blame, I still have to look in the mirror and realize that MyUnwife would rather live alone than live with me.
That's a big ol' lump of stocking coal. Maybe the holidays get easier after the first season. Maybe next season I'll be festive. Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, creeps a reindeer's pace from Thanksgiving to Christmas to the last syllable of "Auld Lang Syne," and all my yesterdays I've been a lighting fool atop the ladder of death. Out, out, blinking Santa! Yup, there goes another one. Alas Prof. Yorick, I knew him...