I am not fucking with Christmas, so why is Christmas fucking with me?

“Everybody wants to be/Scroogy, Scroogy!” It’s the season of good will and charity toward folks, but I am filled with ill will and uncharitable thoughts.

It’s not other people saying “Merry Christmas” to me. I just sort of hear the words and think “Oh, that’s nice.” Maybe a look drifts over me, a subvocalization made visible, about how Christmas isn’t worth a turd wrapped thrice around the bottom of the (pick one: toilet or punch) bowl if you haven’t been nice to other people the other ~365 days.

It’s not having to work tonight or Christmas day (or New Year’s Eve or New Year’s day, either). There’s always been something immensely satisfying about the rest of the world dropping out of sight and hunkering at homes, off the streets and out of my hair, and being part of a team of people handling something of the life behind the visible holiday. My fondest holiday memory, for real? 1989, the number, another winter, sound of a drugstore all-nighter, Muzak hittin’ me hard ’cause you know I stocked shelves (brothers and sisters)!

Maybe it’s just the year. Thank goodness it’ll all be over soon.