I hate Christmas. I've said it a million times.

I've only worn it twice and both times I've gotten myself into a horrible mess. A dress that resulted from my father's escape to Beirut. A beautiful silky dark blue dress. It is trouble. The first time i wore it - it was borrowed - i met someone who would shift me out of my comfortable non-existence and leave me hungry for more. The second time - after it was offered to me as a Christmas gift - it became the subject of a full blow-out of my unashamed pettiness (for which, due to stubbornness, i was unable to apologise). I wonder what memory will cling to it more adamantly. That of the first time offender or the misunderstood serial assailant? Perhaps unfairly, it will probably be the former. If only because should i want to forget, i would surely find it a failed mission. Either way, both break my heart, a little every day, and win it back without ever uttering a word. I suppose its rather fragile, my little heart. The dress, however, is truly beautiful, and worth its already heavy history, in all likelihood, due entirely to it. It seems my anger has dissipated and i may be able to rest tonight. I might be inclined to give Christmas another chance tomorrow.