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Was your Christmas Eve Dinner a disaster too?

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There comes a venerable rite of one’s adulthood passage where they can remark on that one disastrous Christmas eve dinner. Mine it seems came this past weekend, and now that it’s come and gone I am happily smirking, happy to know that somehow my nerves have been spared, no switch blade was prodded up my intestine nor any of the pumpkin pie which nearly did end up on the floor end up on my face.

The particulars for simplification go as thus: recent good friend who I have been bonding with thinks to invite me to his patron’s Christmas eve dinner, I accept because being alone (my preferred state of mind if you heathen must know) is not nearly as desirable or manageable as one would wish or desire. I arrive, am cordially introduced to all the close guests- a slightly crazed German sculptor, his blind and gregarious best friend, who happens to be a vast apartment owner, a disillusioned architect who has a love hate relationship with her parents who spent the greater part of her formative years pushing religious dogma that sent her running the other side of the world the minute she could afford a one way ticket, my friend himself- a gifted and talented French artist with a heart of gold, his patron- an undisclosed fashion designer, with an equally big heart who spent the proceeding day cooking and cleaning for her impending guests, and a young man who responded to my friend’s bizarre request for guests on facebook and had this as it would soon turn out crazed individual respond and unfortunately attend.

The dinner initially proceeded calmly, we were all cordial and considerate of each other, watched our table manners, didn’t burp or fart too ungraciously, didn’t text or talk on our respective cells during dinner (despite the temptation) until that was of course when it was time for dessert. By this stage, one of my friends guests, an exotic dancer and singer arrives, and interestingly enough our blind guest, who had no eyes, suddenly found the stamina to use his hands to feel his way about the dinner table, his hands conspicuously landing on the young dancer’s bare back. We watched, she flinched, but she remained still, the blind man in a weird heaven.

From there we then had another guest drop by, an aspiring socialite, trollop of sorts, the type that announces in the same sentence when her name is being offered to you that she is related to the Duke family. Duke family? Hmm, do you know who the Duke family is? Should you care, should anyone?

Upon seeing me the Duke whoring name dropper’s mouth suddenly dropped and she started to tremble like a new born calf in the Highlands. At this point she leans over to our host and half the table and starts pointing in my direction- “What’s he doing here? He is a horrible man, you must make him leave at once.”

For my part, I just remain seated, curious and somewhat beguiled. Is this one of those socialites I once wrote a scathing article about who I caused to lock themselves in the bathroom door and consider their existential plight? Death is near, but then again, death is always near for all of us.

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