So. Christmas.

(NOTE: Based on time elapsed since the posting of this entry, the BS-o-meter calculates this is 13.266% likely to be something that Ferrett now regrets.)

I’ve been texting a lot of people on Christmas – hi!  Hello!  Miss you, Merry Christmas!
And what I’ve gotten back a few times is, “I am getting soooooo drunk to deal with my relatives.”
I’m super-lucky.  I like my relatives.  My Mom’s a hoot.  My Dad is a great conversationalist.  I look forward to spending time with them.
But I also like my chosen family.  The Meyers are wonderful.  My friends are wonderful.  Not a bad one in the bunch.  (If they were, they wouldn’t be my friends – but that’s certainly not true for everyone, as Lord knows a lot of people hate their families and then choose friends who are just as much trouble as their relatives.)
This isn’t bragging; it’s gratitude.  I didn’t choose my Mother, or my Father, or my Uncle Tommy, or Grampa and Gramma and Grammy.  I just got them.  And they, in turn, gave me one hell of a model as to how to build my life, so when I found someone as special as Gini I figured out how to keep her.
That’s luck.  That’s what gratitude is for.  You can be happy at the work you’ve put in – and Lord knows I’ve spent years massaging my psyche to be a better person – but the bedrock of almost any successful work is a layer of luck, and I had that.
Christmas seems a pretty appropriate time to celebrate that luck.  And to thank all my friends, the ones with good families and the ones without.  I miss you all terribly.  I love you all deeply.
Thanks for being here.

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