Christmas sure brings stuff up, like dead bodies bobbing in a lake.
Toss in Bill Hick’s birthday, and I’m ready to update my will. Yes, I already have one, but my bequeaths have changed.
That’s what happens as years pass. The guy who dumped you, you’d love forever nonetheless you left your pearls to, not quite remembering why, requires a rewrite.
Loss, that uninvited guest that keeps showing up, leads your pack of emotions like a crack addicted orchestra leader…think Ricky Ricardo, with a needle in his arm minus Lucy.
No Babalu for you young lady.
You’re unconsciously wearing a mantilla, what’s known as an Italian veil, wondering why they don’t make black Xmas lights, decking the halls with boughs of bourbon…fa la la la.la, la la la…
Merry, unless she’s a skilled barmaid, doesn’t mean a thing to you.
I’m not alone.
The wounded, still sporting a limp, a little more obvious on holidays, salute you, our sores hidden the rest of the year making a Yuletide appearance like no other.
Imagine Santa doing a pole dance drunk, packin a .38, then you might understand.
However, we still try, to deck those halls, even if it means we’re a little tipsy.