Christmas...pfah!
So, you've passed Thanksgiving and now you're doing your Christmas shopping - unless you're like me and got your Christmas shopping done early to avoid the rush, of course. You're picking out a tree and getting ready to stash presents under it. You're trying to be nicer to people just so they'll give you extra gifts (or bigger and better ones) come Christmas Eve (or Christmas Day, whichever). You're listening to Jingle Bells and watching Charlie Brown try to build a snowman. Good for you.
Pfah!
I will admit I can't help but like Christmas to some degree. Who can? But I've kind of lost interest in Christmas, at least the kind of interest that I used to have. My dad's gone, you see. He chose to abandon his wife and son several years ago in favor of a rather ugly wench that he later left because he 'didn't trust her'. He's tried to nickel-and-dime us the whole way. I say shove a string of lights up his ass and see if he glows, the bastard.
My mother doesn't get into Christmas the way she used to. She used to get all excited about the decorations and she used to do a crapload of baking. She'd buy the wrapping paper and we'd all wrap up our gifts.
Now we just have a cocoa (hot tea for her), show each other what we bought, and call it a day.
True, we do the usual Christmas thing: we try to 'conceal' the presents amidst gift bags and such. But we don't do the wrapping anymore and she spends more money on pies than she does time. She listens to Christmas music once in a while.
Me? I'm bitter, I suppose. I could care less about that bastard. In fact, I hate him. When we're kids, we think our dad's Santa and our mom makes the best PB&J sandwiches. Most of us grow up to learn the error of their ways. Most of us. Some of us, though, grow up to see our dad as right around number 1,917,422 on the 'world's best dads' list. Mine's about number five on the 'top ten most wanted dead dads' list.
So, yeah - I'm a little excited about Christmas. Mostly, I'm happy to get the presents. New toys an' all, you understand. But for the rest of Christmas? Santa can go fuck himself.
Pfah!
I will admit I can't help but like Christmas to some degree. Who can? But I've kind of lost interest in Christmas, at least the kind of interest that I used to have. My dad's gone, you see. He chose to abandon his wife and son several years ago in favor of a rather ugly wench that he later left because he 'didn't trust her'. He's tried to nickel-and-dime us the whole way. I say shove a string of lights up his ass and see if he glows, the bastard.
My mother doesn't get into Christmas the way she used to. She used to get all excited about the decorations and she used to do a crapload of baking. She'd buy the wrapping paper and we'd all wrap up our gifts.
Now we just have a cocoa (hot tea for her), show each other what we bought, and call it a day.
True, we do the usual Christmas thing: we try to 'conceal' the presents amidst gift bags and such. But we don't do the wrapping anymore and she spends more money on pies than she does time. She listens to Christmas music once in a while.
Me? I'm bitter, I suppose. I could care less about that bastard. In fact, I hate him. When we're kids, we think our dad's Santa and our mom makes the best PB&J sandwiches. Most of us grow up to learn the error of their ways. Most of us. Some of us, though, grow up to see our dad as right around number 1,917,422 on the 'world's best dads' list. Mine's about number five on the 'top ten most wanted dead dads' list.
So, yeah - I'm a little excited about Christmas. Mostly, I'm happy to get the presents. New toys an' all, you understand. But for the rest of Christmas? Santa can go fuck himself.
posted by Crow at 1:55 PM
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