MORE THAN PYROTECHNICS MEETS THE EYE

Do they know it's Christmas?

They, the romantic misadventures and soul-withering rejections that plague me on each of the other 364 days of the year, they certainly don't observe any yuletide grace period, not even enough of a respite to allow hope to creep its way in before they smash it to jagged shards of freeze-dried dreams.

So, like a moth drawn to the scorching flame, I read more narratives penned by the object of my affection describing her budding affinity for a recent friend of hers. Aside from poking oneself in the eyeball with a surgical needle, this has to be one of the most masochistic and least merry ways to spend Christmas afternoon.

Yes, the family woke up at the crack of dawn, lounged beside a crackling fire and ripped wrapping paper, as is customary. Yes, we gathered for Christmas dinner, a hearty combination of ham, turducken (chicken, duck and turkey all baked together) and doughy rolls. But the savage void of a dream deferred knows no season. At present, I am poring over a three-page declaration of dependence, which I plan to present to her and plead my case for happiness with the fervent freneticism of a convict on death row.

The National Weather Service predicts freezing rain will wallop the area overnight. My personal forecast: Mostly cloudy with a 90 percent chance of heartbreak. Let it snow.