There is a certain kind of fever that only gets to me at this time of year. I call it lust for the impossible film. I’ve spent my early years sunk in details of the perfect Christmas movie script – a corny meets classic snowed joyful holiday embellished in the lightweightness of a super duper love affair that lasts more than the season. Every fuckin’ year, I swear, I wished under the fuckin’ mistletoe at midnight that next year I will have that one of a kind Christmas, with the right people, the right feeling and the best time in my life. Nope, it still doesn’t come to life. I still urge for that “all is full of love” kind of holiday but I seem to fail somehow in making it come to life. My Christmas has always been about criminal relationships, loved ones sent apart, digested memories and wishes that never got old. But I swear, every time I bump into Love Actually or Bridget Jones or..OR Home Alone I get the overwhelming feeling of being stabbed in the face. You just need love. And the right kind of people.