Merry Whatever Doesn't Offend You.

To wish or not to wish. Chances are when you wish someone a Merry Christmas, said person is not a Christian or a big fan of this Jesus person anyway. Might as well say Merry Capitalism, as most Conspiracy Theorists would agree. I, for one, don't give a shit if you wish me a Merry Christmas. I will not be offended, being a person without faith in anything, and it will just be one of the many things my brain will process and store into that Don't Know, Don't Care, Not Worth Giving A Shit About Right Now space. I honestly do not care. If Merry Wishes were given to me out of the kindness of someone's heart or, more likely the case, something the staffs of TESCO has to say as per the daily morning briefings leading up to the fucktarded mayhem that is Last Minute Christmas Shopping, I'll take it. Or, like for myself, for lack of a better thing to say out of awkwardness when leaving the the doctor's after my son getting his second lot of jabs on Christmas Eve.

Merry Christmas, and have a good evening. Like I care, because it in no way affects me but I will just say it anyway so as not to come off as the social retard I actually am. No, really. Even if the person were to ramble about her husband's mid-life crisis after that I'd just sympathetically nod and worry about how on Earth are we going to survive until the next pay day when we have spunked hideous amounts of money on dinner for this one night and gifts for the children that they will be grateful for for the next ten to fifteen minutes upon opening them. The next day they are just going to open the kitchen cupboards and moan about there being fuck all for when The Munchies hit anyway.

What am I going to tell Kai about the meaning of Christmas? I don't know, mate, I don't do Christmas growing up. I just jumped on the bandwagon because presents and getting shit-faced on chocs and sweets appeals to me. There is no God but there is Santa, according to Daddy. Look, Santa ate the mince pies and left a fuckload of glitter all over the carpets. Guess we are all going to look strippers all the way to Easter then, my child.

I do get a kick out of  telling Jaz's other children that Christmas is not really Jesus' birthday anyway. His real birthday was on the 11th of March and the 25th of December is actually one of the many Pagan holidays the Christians took and made their own. Give the Pagans credit where it is due, I say!

Okay, it may or may not be the 11th of March but that is like saying the first sighting of Unicorns may or may not be during the Ice Age.

Fact is Pope Julius I declared Christmas on 25th December to convince the Roman Pagans to convert to Christianity because that the day Pagans celebrate Saturnalia to honour the God of Agriculture. An agricultural bloke is worth honouring, me thinks.

But who cares? I don't.

Just have a good holiday, rip open a lot of gifts, go mad with sugar rush, have a traditional family row, chuck roasting pans about in retaliation. It's just another day anyway. Do whatever you want with it. It is the end of the year and if you partake in Christmas you will definitely be skint as fuck, no matter what your household income is, so just enjoy the ride while you pork out on that obscenely massive dinner and harbour hate for your family members.

For me I am just glad that this year Jaz and I are no longer homeless. We have a home and if I want to kick shit up I am entitled to it. Men love when bitches go crazy during Festive seasons.

I should start blogging again.

Jaz said that I should probably start blogging again. I have a feeling he has never read any of my entries and he has no bloody idea what I've been going on about. My guess is he is probably, most definitely, sick of my running commentary on every single thing and clocked that my verbal diarrhoea re-surfaced each time I come away for too long.

Poor man. He has no idea that my desire to bludgeon people with blunt objects has got fuck all to do with my menstrual cycle. No idea at all. I just time my verbal assault to fit that time of the month so that I behave like a fully-functional woman, all stereotypically-pre-menstrual-y and stuff.

I came away to have a baby, just in case you're wondering, if you're not on my personal Faceshet account. He's three months old now. A slobbering little lunatic. He has yet to showcase the full extent of his lunacy but if Genetic Make-Up is a proven fact then I am sure some of mine and Jaz's would spill onto his person's personality. He is an amazing cuddler when he is not trying to force himself awake by spasming violently and planking. Amazing little human being with his own brand of Eau du Bebe Sick. Oh how I love him and his little sticky-outy ears and grabby Monkey Boy toes. Love. Every time I stare at him sleeping I get filled with love for the spit-encrusted baby. And then he will usually violently jerk himself awake, be extremely annoyed that he fell for that jiggy-bounce trick again and moan. Then, I will just look at him and think 'Oh, you silly little gibbon'. That was the toned-down version. Days on end of not enough sleep and what comes out of both my mouth and Jaz will make you question our characters.

So yeah... I will be back. But don't you worry. I won't be posting any of those Elf on the Shelf shite or Mummy and Baby Craft bollocks.

Until then, have a Happy Festivus, Restivus Pastafarians. Hope you attended Mass at the Church of The Flying Spaghetti Monster and properly aired your grievances at dinner.