This holiday should be bigger than Christmas for me, but it isn't. And I don't know why. Maybe it's because drinking beer reminds me of drinking antifreeze (which I've heard is a terrible idea). It could be that the thought of corned beef triggers my gag reflex, and Celtic music makes my ears bleed. Or perhaps I can blame my old roommate, the leprechaun.

Did I mention that he was just about the worst roommate ever?

It's true. I thought it would be great to have a magical red-headed midget in my house. But he was no fun at all. He took it personally when I called him a midget or a dwarf. He didn't even like the term "little person." He preferred to be described as "wee." But not like, "Whee, this so much much fun!"

More like, "We really have ourselves a problem." 

If you've ever seen the movie Single White Female, he was just like the crazy lady played by Jennifer Jason Leigh. Except he was much shorter and wore a fancy green hat. He never washed the dishes. Never took out the trash. Food was always getting stuck in his beard.

It was like he went out of his way to be annoying.

The only reason I ended up living with him was because of the gold. But it wasn't long before I found out that he promised that to everyone. That's why he always needed a place to stay. Once people realized that he wasn't going to lead them to a pot of gold, they sent him packing.

But I cut him some slack. I tolerated his tantrums and his long showers. I put up with his stupid buckle shoes and that sickly albino ferret. Why? Because honestly, I thought it was a test. I thought that everyone else had given up on him too quickly. I was going to be smarter. I was going to stick it out.

I believed that if I could make it through, one day he would give up the goods. He would congratulate me on my magnanimous attitude. Thank me for my patience. Take my finger in his tiny hand and lead me through the woods to a half-buried cache of 24K bricks. And then that would be that.

But he just kept being a jerk. And then his ferret threw up in my suede loafers, and I just lost it. I tossed them both out onto the street and sent all of his tiny green suitcases sailing off the balcony after him. See you later, leprechaun.

Of course, this being Richmond, I could never fully escape my past. I would see the leprechaun around town, and he wouldn't even acknowledge me. Not even a tiny whassup head-nod. If I walked into a restaurant and saw the back of his green bowler hat, I'd go eat somewhere else. He never paid me for the loafers and walked out owing me over $100 in long-distance charges from calls he made to his girlfriend in Puerto Rico.

I even heard from a mutual friend that he was still working the gold angle to pick up women.

So every year on St. Patrick's Day, I stay home. Because I know if I go out, he's going to be there ... drinking and dancing and milking that adorable, wee leprechaun schtick for all it's worth. You can't really blame him. Today of all days, maybe he deserves to be the center of attention. Heck, if I didn't know him, if we didn't have this history, I'd probably be another face in the crowd ... clapping and singing and cheering him on. If I didn't know him, I'd be the first to buy him a tiny green beer.

But I'm not his friend, and I'm not his fan. Honestly, if I run into him, it will be bad. We both still have a lot of pent-up resentment and unfinished emotional business. That's why I stay home every year on March 17.

Because the last thing I want to do is get in a bar fight with a leprechaun on St. Patrick's Day.