Like underwear fresh off of the radiator, the holidays are, for the most part, warm and comforting. Across the street I can see people are sitting in the windows of the Best House, snuggling together in booths, watching football, drinking beers and cutting cheese pizza into bite-sized pieces for their googley-eyed kid. On my side of the street at the coffeeshop, the walls are lined with colorful Christmas lights and there are brilliant red poinsettias on the shelves. It’s quiet except for a holiday CD and the quiet hum of the barista cleaning the espresso machine... It’s almost time to go home. I don’t have any homework. It’s not as cold as it could be. I have affordable internet, family and friends who politely ignore my hang-ups and a warm place to take a dump. If only I liked jazz, everything would be perfect.
There is nothing but tranquility, hot cocoa and valium at every turn. I have no excuse for bitterness and no reason to complain and it drives me crazy
I meditate on the important aspects of my existence as I stroll home. I realize that it isn’t important that I buy everyone great gifts or send out a holiday letter. It’s even less important that I get a used Buell or a dirt bike. And it isn’t important that my editor ever calls me again or that I have a job. Or that I vacuum or brush my teeth or learn to use a fork and knife together or whether or not I have mice in my apartment or repay my student loans or spend hundreds of dollars on disposable clothing items from H&M or ever go on a date with someone who doesn’t smell like they just rolled out of a litter box. And it’s not important whether or not I listen to the Cure or file for a tax refund or drink wine and play darts. None of that is important. What’s important is that I’m always right. There will always be underwear and radiators. And everything else is perfect.
So Happy Holidays.
There is nothing but tranquility, hot cocoa and valium at every turn. I have no excuse for bitterness and no reason to complain and it drives me crazy
I meditate on the important aspects of my existence as I stroll home. I realize that it isn’t important that I buy everyone great gifts or send out a holiday letter. It’s even less important that I get a used Buell or a dirt bike. And it isn’t important that my editor ever calls me again or that I have a job. Or that I vacuum or brush my teeth or learn to use a fork and knife together or whether or not I have mice in my apartment or repay my student loans or spend hundreds of dollars on disposable clothing items from H&M or ever go on a date with someone who doesn’t smell like they just rolled out of a litter box. And it’s not important whether or not I listen to the Cure or file for a tax refund or drink wine and play darts. None of that is important. What’s important is that I’m always right. There will always be underwear and radiators. And everything else is perfect.
So Happy Holidays.
(Backround Art by Thomas Kinkade. www.thomaskinkade.com)
No comments:
Post a Comment