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Christmas

I couldn't feel less like Christmas if I was angsting in black nail polish and mourning veils. Not once this season have I felt moved or excited by the bustle, lights or prettiness around me. I took a possessive joy in decorating our home but certainly not a holy one. And when I think of my family far away from me and each other, physically or otherwise, my heart is as dead and cold as a stone in my breast. The one thing that has lifted my spirits is that every day this week I have gotten a book off my Amazon wish list from my dad and Donna, and in January I am going to take these books to the coffee house or under a tree and read them to my heart's content.

I really didn't want to suffer postpartum depression over A Raven for a Lark, but I can't deny it any longer. I know when I leave my world that it will be a while before I have the stamina to enter it again. Memories of it come upon me and it's so beautiful I feel sorry for everyon else in the world. Sometimes I think that that's where I'm going to be when I die. Any of those places I have lived in my mind.

Tonight I can't get on the computer to do work, and I wonder what I should do. There is scarcely any work to do at all. It annoys me that people say prOn, pron or pr0n instead of porn or better yet porn-o-graph-y in their journals. Do you know what I am talking about? One half of the female population is taking pictures of their twats and putting it on their MySpace and the other half is thinking of gentle metaphors for their boy-on-boy action. Let's call a spade a spade though, okay? Let's have a little balance, because all you are driving me crazy. That's right, you. I can't take much more of your feminine nonsense. I am Everywoman. If you see me in the hallway tonight, please smile back, or at least, don't glance away like a nervous animal. If you scan my groceries or make my latte, please don't treat me like gum on your shoe. Thanks, I appreciate it.

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