My definitive Holiday experience is quiet desperation; a clawing descent into a season that chokes the sun out of the sky at 4 p.m., a season in which I can never ever take my coat off, a season that supercharges everything with static electricity and dry-air nosebleeds. It’s a slow, entropic plod into seasonal affective disorder, promising nothing but wind that flays the skin off my lips and Februaries that last for years. It’s a season where all creation bends to one purpose- beaming the message “Kill Yourself” directly into my brain.
Yeah. Yeah. I know what you’re thinking, “Oooh Gary! That’s so fucking EDGY of you to say that! Oooh ooh! let me hear more of your opinions! ‘Fuck Christmas?’ What next? The Beatles… overrated you say!? Go on!”
But, let’s face it, it’s easier for me to get that out in the open than waiting until, say, December 23rd when I’m drinking straight out of a tureen of eggnog on my lap, in the dark, in front of the television at 3 a.m., and I start crying uncontrollably when Uncle Louis sets Clark Griswold’s tree on fire with a cigar.
And then the kids wake up. And they start crying.
And then mom starts yelling…
Anyway. To the point of this update: nothing brings these feelings on faster than taking my meager paycheck from the box folding factory out to shop for Christmas gifts. If I go to Walmart on Black Friday, I’ll get trampled by a woman with a mustache and a mustard-stained Big Johnson T-shirt. At Radioshack, I’ll hear the sound of honkies shrieking in harmony on cable news about how the liberals are destroying Jesus’ birthday. This will all end in a last-minute dash to Dollar General on the 22nd while the Christmas remix of “Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw” plays over the store’s loudspeakers.
Well not this year! I took some initiative! And after two hours or so of flipping slowly through Facebook photo albums of college friends who haven’t talked to me in years, I’m ready to LIVEBLOG MY ONLINE CHRISTMAS SHOPPING. SORRY THE FUCKING KEY IS STUCK THIS PIECE OF SHIT IS LIKE SEVEN YEARS OLD AND IT WAS EITHER A NEW LAPTOP OR PAY FOR THEROOT CANAL I WAS PUTTING OFF JESUS FUCKING CHRIST WHY CAN’T ANYTHING WORK AND WHY DOES THE GODDAMN FURNACE SMELL LIKE BURNING DOGHAIR I SWEAR TO GOD I’M GETTINGA FUCKING RAZOR AND
Okay. Fixed it. The key was a little gummy.
I linked the gifty goodies for you, readers.