xmas eve, or ambrosia salad driving a bentley

i sleep in.

heavy curtains blocking

natural light help me sleep

much later than 

is necessary.

i read the first twenty pages

of a dostoevsky novel.

i take a shallow, mostly cold bath

and get ready to face my family.

at my grandma's

i drink four beers and egg nog

with rum in it.

my family talks about

how fucked up other relatives are.

fake pregnancies,

fake cancers,

fat lazy asses,

bar fights, aliases and

stolen identities—

my cousin and i agree

that we are glad we all

turned out 'alright.'

i go home and sulk on

my house's heated bathroom floors.

christmas eve feels like shit

but at least i am warm.