Christmas would be better if it was forever 1989. Five years old, just getting home late from auntie's house, jump out of the car and run into the house to sit under the tree, my refuge. Dad reminds me that I need to put out cookies for Santa. Don't forget the milk. I put the cookies out and Dad lets me have one, even though I am sure I ate a king's ransom of candy at my aunt's. I put on my favourite jammies and hop into bed and try not to sleep, because I want to get one glimpse of Santa. I can see from my bed through the hallway, the lights on the tree, the crooked angel hanging off the top because the ceiling is too low, and the glorious mountain of presents that was waiting for me to tear open the next morning. I promise myself not to fall asleep....
I wake up, alas - IT'S CHRISTMAS!!!! I sit straight up and bed and put on my penguin slippers and cannonball my parents' waterbed. "GET UP!!!!!!! SANTA CAME!!!" Then, ran like a bat out of hell downstairs to wake my brother up and notify him of Santa's presence as well. I wrap myself up in a cocoon with my blankie and sit cross-legged half under the tree and cover myself with presents. Literally bury myself in them. I piled Mom's presents in her favourite chair, Dad's presents on the couch, and I left my brother's to get himself, because that's how siblings are. We spent what seemed like an eternity tearing open hundreds of fabulous gifts, and then once the unwrapping was done, I would do the backstroke in the sea of wrapping paper. I spent all day under the tree, singing carols, occasionally getting up to play the piano, playing my new Game Boy, and talking to my new teddy bear hamster who I suitably named "cat."
Oh, what's this Christmas you ask? Let's fast forward about 15 years...
Gotta go to work, because I gotta get money to buy some more drugs. Gotta make some money because, fuck, I actually have to act like I give a fuck and buy people gifts. I hate Christmas. It's a fucking rat race, commercialized, pseudo-religious crock of fucktacular bullshit. Gotta race out of work to attempt to get to my aunt's on time. Of course, I'll be late, because I'll be sitting in my room getting spun as fuck, 'just one last bowl...you're not gonna get any for a few hours....' Plaster on a shit ton of makeup and try and cover the fact that I can't keep my hands away from my face, or the rest of my body for that matter. Smoke 4 cigarettes on the way, which is oh, 11 minutes away (I have hideous social anxiety which is extremely exacerbated at family events which I now avoid at any possible cost, however, Christmas Eve at auntie's is unavoidable.) I'm sweating balls even though it's about 10 or so degrees out (fahrenheit, for those of you who are not in the good ol' US of A), I plaster on a smile and try and stop shaking for a moment. The only thing that is on my mind at this point is a bee-line to the mini bar. I need a fucking cocktail. Uncle never makes it stiff enough. But I'm only going to have one, just to take the edge off - I don't want to fuck up my euphoria. I retreat to smoke outside as often as I can so I don't get stuck too long in some sort of "Ohhhhh how are youuuuuuuuuuuu? And where is school? Are you getting good grades? Are you still working at ______? You've lost weight since Thanksgiving...." and I know that's gonna be talked about behind my back: "is she okay? anorexia again?" Everybody's a fucking gossip. Mind your own god damn business.
I pretend to eat my food, a delicious homemade lasagna that I used to look forward to, and now I am constructing a lasagna condo on my plate, trying to make it look like I considered eating something. Fuck, I can not wait to go home and smoke a bowl...
I wish it was 1989. Forever.
