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When
I was younger, I was well aware that the true meaning of Christmas was
to receive as many presents as possible whilst hiding behind the sofa
from anybody who may attempt to visit. Since my parents' divorce however,
almost every Christmas has been completely different from the last. A
couple of years ago in fact I found myself sat around a table with a
friend's loving family as they sang songs and had a great time. This
might seem normal to you but because I have nothing to do with my family-
and we've never sang songs- I couldn't help but assume the night would
end with me being burnt alive in a giant Wicker Man. The next year I was
kindly invited back but this time we'd be staying in an empty hotel
that one family member had been tasked with looking after for the
season. Not only that but I swear to God that that specific family
member genuinely did show me both an axe that he kept hidden and also some
documents stating that someone of his name had worked there a good
hundred years earlier. I couldn't go past a fucking lift without
expecting to see a river of blood come flooding out. God knows what I'll
be doing this year for it. Maybe it'll be another quiet one at home or
maybe I'll be floating above my bed as somebody throws holy water in my face and I call their mother a cunt.