I hate holidays injected with major expectations.
Today I realized how awkward Southern California looks wrapped up in big red bows and inflatable snowmen.
Especially with the all too comfortable toasty breeze ruffling the palm trees outside.
I don’t know why every year I hope to wake up in the morning and have the magic of Christmas fill my home.
Every year I wake up and it’s just another day,
except full of expectations of joy and fulfillment.
Maybe it’d be more magical with a blanket of snow.
You can stuff as much frothy Christmas music you can possibly stand down my throat, but I’m afraid it’ll just never bring back the sweet innocence of years past.
Perhaps this is just how it’s always going to be…
