Ahhh, Christmas.

There I was this weekend, sitting cross-legged in front of the tree with the rest of my family, waiting to open presents and basking like an overweight goose in the warm glow of familial love.

Everyone was there -- my parents, Buffalo Bob and Linda; my brothers, Los Angeles Dennis and Moscow Mikhail (he's adopted); and my grandparents, whose names I forget. We were all together for the first time in years.

The day started off like Christmas has in my family for years. You see, we have a Christmas morning tradition. Instead of racing downstairs, tripping over ourselves in our green feetsie pajamas, we all walk down calmly and slowly, holding hands, and we sit in silence for a while, contemplating our good fortune and thinking about Jesus, who, after all, died on Christmas Day for all the people who swear, dance, and drink alcohol. He's a helluva guy, really. God knows I wouldn't have done that.

So there we were, casting affectionate glances around the room like the Brady Bunch does in the opening credits. Sweet little Mikhail, the youngest one in curls. Strong, proud Bob, who knew (it was much more than a hunch) that he'd one day start a family with the lovely lady, Linda. Crazy Dennis who talks to himself, the Jan of our bunch. And the grandparents, who just sat in a corner as we ignored them, like a pair of Alices.

I felt envy on behalf of all the families who didn't get to have such a beautiful family and such loving traditions, particularly all the muslim kids in Afghanistan who are going to hell.

As soon as the imposed moment of silence was up, we tore into our presents. Well, most of us. Dennis got a new football and a bottle of Thorazine. Mikhail got a bottle of Vodka and one of those Russian dolls with a bunch of progressively smaller dolls inside it. Bob got the new rifle he'd wanted. Linda got makeup and a spatula. The grandparents got a box of Depends.

And what did I get?

NOTHING.

Nothing! Not even socks. Not even underwear. Not even a box of kleenex or a wad of used toilet paper. Not even a kick in the nuts.

Nothing.

I was crushed. My eyes ran across the room, and all I could do was make little squawking noises. "Wh-? Hu-? G-? Do-?" Just syllables, really. Not even words. Such was my shock.

Dennis and Mikhail started laughing. Dennis offered to let me play with his wrapping paper, provided I gave it back. Mikhail started yelling at me in Russian, which he does when he's drunk.

Now, it almost would've been forgivable had it been on purpose. I mean, if I had done something that warranted being left out, ok, fine, I would've been pissed, but I would've understood. Nothing to talk to the shrink about. But, shit, even my grandparents got stuff, and no one's said a word to them in years.

But this wasn't intentional, which was even worse. MUCH worse. Everyone just...forgot about me, I guess. Bob looked at Linda, Linda looked at Dennis, Dennis looked at Mikhail, Mikhail looked at what's his name, my grandfather, and my grandfather just stared off into space, whistling "Camptown Races."

Someone dropped the ball, but no one would own up to it.

I was crying uncontrollably, as I frequently do. Bawling. Screaming. Tearing out clumps of hair. Hurling curse words at my parents like I was a pitcher and the words "assholes" and "dickweeds" were baseballs.

I grabbed Dennis' wrapping paper and ran as fast as I could up the stairs, which wasn't very fast since I was trying to cover up the spot on my PJs where I had wet myself. I slammed the door, and tried to suffocate myself with a pillow.

That didn't work, but I did black out for a while. When I came to, I wiped the crusted snot from my nose, wrang the tears out of my drenched pillow, and started thinking.

Do the presents really matter? Are they the point of the holiday? Was Jesus pissed on the first Christmas when he didn't get any presents?

Is Christmas really meant to be about rampant commercialism, or should it be about hanging with family and dying for people's sins? All deep questions for a 23 year-old.

It took me a bit to think all this through, but I came to an important realization: fuck Jesus. I want presents. So I got dressed, left my room, walked out the front door, and moved to Afghanistan to be with all the other kids who got shafted on Christmas.

And that's why I haven't written in a while.

How was your weekend?