I suck at blogging.

I really do. I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to compose stuff about my feelings on boycotts and blacklists, and working as a writer and consumer in an industry with people who may not have my best interests at heart.

Instead, I’m going to give you something about seasonal observances and neurosis.

I love the season. It’s the time that autumn warned us about, where the weather gets treacherous and the sky is dark, and we have to stay holed up in our safe places and hope our supply of heating fuel, fatty comfort foods, and hot drinks will last until everything thaws out. It makes me want to start mulling anything that comes within five yards of me. Eggs? Probably going to experience a serious nogging any day now. Nights are long, people. What better way to prevent cabin fever (and related axe murders and/or cannibalism) than with a stimulating gift exchange?

So, you know, when I say I don’t do Christmas, it doesn’t mean I hate people who do. It just means that the Baby Jesus isn’t who I pray and make offerings to, and that I mostly think that axial tilt (and Doctor Who) is the reason for the season.

I can still hang out with people who like Christmas. I’ll still snog them under the mistletoe. Just, you know, understand that it’s frustrating to be told I’m “at war” with something just because it doesn’t apply to me, and that I have a reasonable, Constitutionally-supported expectation that the public sphere be secular enough that we can coexist.

Now turn the damn lights out so I can set this mince pie on fire.

This post has been mirrored from Christian A. Young's Dimlight Archive. To see it in its original format, visit dimlightarchive.com