Times like this, I fall into the lonesome mood that oftentimes tend to define me. I hate Christmas. But not for any religious reasons. I loath the season because it forces me to account for my days each year and reminds me of the many failures in those times. I hate Christmas because I invariably spend it alone, in some dark corner of my home; an empty bottle of wine here and another there. And almost certainly speaking to the emptiness in my head all evening.

Christmas is family time but I have not raised a family of my own. So when the generations gather at the table, I am most likely, the topic of discussion. I hate to sit through those hours because it harbors the very innate fears I dread.

For the past two years , I have chosen to spend my Christmases in London. Away from friends, family and hangers-on. In London, I am a nobody and can wander the streets unknown; eat what I want and sleep when I want. Unbothered by any concerns elsewhere. Yet, when Christmas Day sets, all I do sit in front of the TV and wander how happy the family across the street look with all the laughter and joy oozing from there. Yes, even London has lost that appeal to me. I am still sad, lonely and alone.

I have decided to do something about my situation. I am going to be married in the new year. Maybe for the wrong reasons, if ever there was one, but I have decided it is time to raise my own family. I need to do this because I deserve my own happiness, joy and bountiful expectations.

I will no longer shed a tear on Christmas Day.

Merry Christmas, guys.