christmas spirit is gone.
The Christmas spirit has left me, not that I had too much to begin with. I’ve become jaded with Christmas already and am ready to tear down my mini 3-ft tree. Wrap up the lights; wind-up the beads, take Petie, my Christmas bird, off the top of the tree. Fold up the stockings, re-package the ornaments. Put everything into a box labeled “X-MAS” that I’m sure I’ll lose between now and next year.
I haven’t gone to any holiday parties, or taken part in any holiday festivities. The closest I’ve gotten was hurrying through crowds as I bought a candy thermometer yesterday. I was going to make toffee and peppermint bark, maybe whip up some Christmas cookies. But I didn’t and don’t have the staples necessary. Throw it in the box, I’m not gonna even think about using it until next November when I get the annual Christmas hair up my ass to be festive.
Why are Christmas expectations so high and unattainable? Where are the merry Christmas people that go the Nutcracker, and watch the tree-lighting ceremony and stroll through holiday crowds drinking apple cider and throw fancy holiday parties and host gift wrapping get-togethers? I think they don’t exist and if they did, they’d just succeed in pissing me off with their never ending perkiness the rest of the year through so that by the time Christmas was around the corner, just the thought of them would make me want to barf. I’m feeling Grinchy.
I never even drank hot buttered rum this year. LAME |
Man, if your highest expectations are to avoid anything having to do with Christmas, you will be really happy by simply lying your way out of everything. That's what I do. I'm gonna have a 4 day weekend with nothing at all to do. I can't wait. I've told three different people that I will be doing Christmas at three completely different venues in order to avoid them all. I bought one present this year, and only because I had to. We had Yankee Swap at the firm's librarian Christmas party. $15 limit. Bought a single serve French-press coffe thingey at Cabela's. It got 'stolen' twice. Huge hit. Everybody loves me. Holidays blow. Birthdays blow. Regular days rule. I'll take a regular Friday over just about anything. |
Jesus Christ Decided He Doesn't Want to Celebrate His Birthday This Year by Matt Bannish Seriously, guys, no party this year. I know you've all been looking forward to it, but I really just don't want to celebrate this one. It's a little trite and, frankly, over the top. Take a look at past celebrations; I feel overindulgent. Just not my style. And I'm not just saying this with the expectation that you'll throw a party anyway. This is no false front. This is straight talk, so listen up: I don't want a party. I just want to have a relaxed, quiet night. Maybe I'll go out to eat. I know just the place; I think I've earned it. Don't even think about arranging the T.G.I. Friday's wait staff to sing "Happy Birthday." I'd maintain a polite smile for the duration of their song, but you better believe I'd be seriously pissed. I wouldn't even eat the free dessert. I'd let the ice cream melt and it would all go to waste. So don't do it. And no gifts. I always end up with shit I don't want. Like frankincense. And myrrh. I ask for the receipt and then suddenly I'm the bad guy. Like it matters, anyway—what am I supposed to do with store credit at the Spice Emporium? Don't be like that. I'm not ungrateful. I appreciate the gesture; I just don't need it, all right? Save your money. Then there's the matter of guests. Birthday parties draw people I've meticulously extracted from my social circle. It's always the same: Word gets out and invitations miraculously appear on the doorsteps of every irritating prick I've ever encountered. I end up avoiding people at my own party. Next thing you know, I'm cornered by Brandon Schwartz, tap-dancing my way out of 65 unreturned calls. And I certainly don't have the patience to put up with another drunk guy this year. Allow me to paint you the inevitable picture: He'll show up an hour early and carry on with general daftness, ignoring—or, rather, embracing—the fact that it is 1 o'clock p.m. He'll then stumble around the sunroom and vomit on my throw pillows. I'm looking at you, Cameron. Finally, there better be no surprise party. You know that about me, I hate surprises. I'm sorry Susan had to find that out the hard way, but maybe if she hadn't been hiding in my closet she'd still have all her teeth. Well, now, I hope I've made myself clear. If I so much as see one party favor on the day of December 25, I swear to God I'll lose it. |
