Merry Fucking Christmas

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I hate Christmas.

Mostly what I hate is the traffic. Yesterday I went out to run a few errands. Just normal, everyday things like getting groceries and gas. I had totally forgotten about that whole Christmas thing.

It took me two hours. Two fucking hours.

I haven’t even done any shopping yet. By that I mean, I haven’t run to Walmart to frantically grab gift cards yet.

Oh, Christmas.

It used to mean something back when I was religious. Little baby Jesus, all swaddled up in that manger. Born to die a brutal, horrifying death so that generations of sanctimonious fuckwads could misunderstand and mythologize him… so that holiday shoppers could fuck up a perfectly good Friday afternoon.

Yay, Jesus.

There is something oddly poignant about this time of year, though, isn’t there? It’s probably that whole solstice thing. The darkness makes us latch onto the important things, which for most of us, let’s face it, is the newest, most expensive STUFF.

Actually, I’m not that cynical. I’m convinced it really isn’t about the stuff: it’s about flaunting your disposable income, showering your family and friends with more than they can afford to give you. It’s not rampant consumerism; it’s an exhibition of how much money we make. It’s a chance to remind you that I’m better, but it’s cool — here, have this gift card. Yeah, I know. I shouldn’t have.

Ah, man. It warms my goddamn heart.

Merry fucking Christmas, everyone.

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