Merry Fucking Christmas.
The overwhelming sadness looming over my head and possessing every
inch of my thought process is only a mere reminder it's that time of year
again. Holiday time. The time of supposed joy filled
giving and family love and all that holly jolly bullshit.
I'm quite a cynic (I know you couldn't tell) and for me this is the
biggest slap in the face time of year. People fighting in stores
over a stupid toaster, shopping until your account explodes, baking,
entertaining, and faking a smile for the so called loved ones.
Deep down it's a bitterness in everyone, a dreaded event, a false
joy. No one is truly happy until the event is actually arrived so
they can witness their pride gift wrapped bow and ribbon, be shredded open to
give 10.25 seconds of joy to someone who then proceeds to rip the next pride
filled box. We beam with joy at our glorious bounty while we wrap
ever so carefully what we hope is happiness in a box.
Then there is the overzealous Christian-Christmas keep Christ in
Christmas debate, blindly yelling about the birth of their sweet fairy tale
baby, still not realizing this is a pagan holiday, even more so exaggerated by
the amount of gifts we buy, not the amount of "praise" and
"hallelujah" bullshit it's claimed to be about. It's not about
Jesus, folks. It never was. Get over it, and don't get me started
on Jesus, or religion or the idea that a magic man is supposed to save me for
being exactly how he created me - a spiteful, unlucky, bitch.
My happiness doesn't come in a box, nor from giving, since I've
become so broke and in debt these days I can't afford my light bill much less
giving other people what I cannot yet find myself. My sadness
however, sits around a beautifully lit tree, with sparkles and baubles
strategically placed. It lures in the couples strolling arm and arm
two paces behind the shopping crowd while they enjoy their evening. It
sits empty under my tree I regretfully put up. Its stronger, harder,
and more intense like the bionic man of emotion.
It's the loneliness I feel when I bake my most delicious of
creations, only to cut myself one slice and throw the rest away. It's
the pain in my heart when I wake to find the hopeful companion I brought home
the night before has left. It's the regret I feel missing out on my
twenties. No socialization, no friends to call, just a bitter old
late twenty something woman and her dog.
It sneaks up on me at work while I sit with my plastic face that
fakes a somewhat normal happiness, breaking my train of thought and sending me
spiraling into a whirlwind of red-faced emotion. It never
leaves, it's always here, that sick reminder that I'm alone and have yet to
even remotely find someone to talk to, but during the holidays, it's plastered
all over every single shiny ornament, every neatly wrapped gift, and every
fuzzy blanket I'll sit under alone. It's worse.
Today is my company Christmas party. People are walking
around with excitement for the feasting and socializing. Their loved
ones and children will be here. There's gonna be gifts and Santa and
families. And me, holding up the wall watching everyone else as I
wallow in my self-loathing.
Hopefully there will be alcohol.
I wish everyone a Merry Christmas, a safe holiday, and all the joy I
know I will never get. I also wish you'd stop rubbing it in my damn
face, because it's cold and tears burn more in the winter.
I'll wrap my drear miserable existence up in a bow and I'm gonna
press on, and I'm gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby
tap-danced with Danny fucking Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass
down that chimney on Christmas, he's gonna find the jolliest neurotic manic
depressed mess this side of the nuthouse.
Hallelujah! Holy Shit.
Where's the Vicodin?
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