Let’s get this out of the way: 2018 blew horrid chunks of shame and embarrassment all across the dance floor — not unlike a certain drunk freshman I can recall over-imbibing at a Syracuse sorority party he had no business attending — certainly requiring decades of scouring to remove the stench.

Well, the party’s almost over, and it’s time we all started sobering up.

Christmas Day 2018, Hammond, Illinois — My wife is a sleep. My son is asleep. My in-laws, I assume, are asleep. Santa, I hope with all my heart, is ripped on the good scotch and burning off the last of his Christmas Spirit on a horned and lubed up Mrs. Claus. And me, I’m awake with thoughts of family and the geriatric year 2018. It was a year many people have complained about. And for many, it wasn’t easy. Immigrants, would-be immigrants; refugees, would-be refugees… They had a rough go. Families of Parkland, Florida. The storms, the fires… There were some large scale FUBAR situations for sure. And these are situations we all need to reconcile with someday soon — a must before we meet our maker. But on the smaller scale of individuality, things were different. In hindsight — which is all we have left at this point, really — 2018 wasn’t so bad.

CNN announced that the word of 2018 was “Justice.” I’ve read on Medium that the word of 2018 was “Trauma,” “Resist,” and “Moments.” Also, “Truth,” “Rage,” Fuck,” and “Listen.”

All wrong.

Oddly, I love Christmastime, which may be weird for an atheist, but not uncommon. I have plenty of atheist and agnostic friends that love Christmas too. I have fond memories of the season, which I am sure accounts for more than half my favor for the yearly celebration — I mean, what’s not to like about holiday music, gift-giving, mashed potatoes (with lots of gravy), friends, family, and the general merriment of yuletide cheer?