Right now, I am where I want to be. I have my family (five people and four dogs) around me. I am drinking hot chocolate and listening to Waking Ashland on Purevolume.com. My wife, my dog and I are sleeping on a hard mattress on the floor of a cramped den, and I couldn't be more comfortable. And it is Christmas Eve.

But I can't pull from my mind the people I know who are probably miserable right now.

Her parents don't understand her, or seem unable to communicate sensitively, lovingly. And she cuts herself with paint scrapers and burns herself with irons.

The only person who ever payed any sympathetic attention to him has been thrown in jail for teaching him how to make meth, and now the only way he can feel special is to lie about almost everything.

After 70 years of living she has no car, no job and eats free popcorn from the bank as her lunch.

I have one cousin fighting a war in Iraq right now, and another in a military prison. Their parents are spending Christmas with the children of the father's first marriage.

These are only the people at the forefront of my mind. There are hundreds more of you.

The living room upstairs has one corner piled with gifts because there are already too many under the tree. . . . When we all already have so much, can giving so many gifts to each other be a form of gluttony? Even if we are doing it because we love one another? Heather and I gave gifts to a lot of our friends, who we don't see too often, and we got nothing from any of them in return. And we don't care! We wish there was a card, one that would not sound obnoxious, in each gift, explaining this. We are not keeping-up appearances, or trying to place ourselves above anyone else. We do it because we want them to know that they (and their significant contribution to our lives) are loved and not forgotten. It is the way we want to express ourselves, and we count money to be a lesser priority than people. Plus, the holiday gives my shopaholism some license.
Giving brings me a sense of satisfaction and joy. During most of the year I forget this, for some reason. Kind-of like the way I forget how satifying writing is, and I don't do it. I let life distract me and take control. Being the person I want to be is such a struggle. I feel like I am fighting against the whole world to achieve it.
There is a job on my shoulders. There are bills and health problems. Casual promises and grown-up responsibilities. There are fears and uncertainties. There is a comfortable bed and a room that blocks the wind. There is safety in that room, there is escape. But there is no life. The life is in the people. . . . oh damn. I've gone stream-of-consciousness on you. Forgive me?
Thanks, thats what friends do.

Merry Christmas.