naamah_darling: The Punisher skull wearing a Santa hat. (Christmas Punisher)
I have "Jingle Bell Rock" stuck in my head. I had it stuck in my head last night, too. It's like a circle of hell. Only because I've been looking at Michael Manning artwork for most of the evening, it's not so bad. Now I'm picturing Tom Welling and Steven Strait as ponyboys in Christmas hats and jingle-bell collars. Go on. Tell me Steven Strait does not have a Michael Manning look about him.

But this is not about my perversions. This is not about what I would do to both of them given half a chance and a bottle of lube. This is not even about how much I'd like to watch them fight.

This is about Christmas.

I fucking love Christmas. I mean a serious two-fisted hair-pulling scream-the-walls-down fucking love Christmas.

I tried to get behind the whole calling it Yule thing, or Solstice, or what have you, and while that's more in line with what I believe in it's just not the same. All my nostalgia is for Christmas. Not the birth of Christ, but fucking Christmas. Yes, I love that gumdrop and cotton wool hyper-commercial confection that has secularized the sacred and put Santa Claus in the place of Baby Jesus. When I say "Yule" or "Solstice," I mean the gathering I have with friends. One night out of all nights. Christmas, now, is that ribbon-festooned blow-up doll orgy I have all month long.

Oh, sure, its crass commercialization has robbed the season of whatever holy awe might once have lent it at least a solemn grandeur, and Christmas has turned what was always a genuinely shitty and unpleasant part of the year into an even more torturesome and now spiritually bereft exercise in annoyance, stress, bills, family drama, horrible shopping escapades, returns, exchanges, and debt.

But like that blow-up doll, you just aren't looking at it right. It's fucking beautiful. Sure, it's fake as hell, but tits are tits, and Christmas is Christmas.

I love that it starts before Thanksgiving now. I love the colors. I love the smells. The jingly ornaments, the ribbon, the paper, the buying presents for friends, the decorations indoors and out, the Christmas lights, the candy canes, the cards and shitty cranberry sauce. Gingerbread houses, pictures, cats under the tree, lots of boxes, stuff in the mail, cooking smells, snow, Scotch tape, making cookies, Christmas carols on the radio, red and green glitter, scratchy trees, warm socks, and that new action figure smell.

That's my secret. I really love it, despite all the reasons I should not.

I'm one of those complete assholes who wears a Santa hat out into traffic from Thanksgiving weekend on, with no irony whatsoever. I smile at every pusnuts dickface I see in the grocery store. I will wish people I don't know a merry Christmas a week in advance if I speak more than two sentences to them. I ask what they are buying their dog, their kids, their bitch of a hairdresser. And I care. For, like, three weeks out of the year, I am not faking it. That human interest shit really gets to me.

For real, I don't care if people don't get me anything. I just want to see everyone and eat tasty food and laugh at off-color jokes and get a little tipsy.

I never wanted to be the sort of romantic numbcunt who cries at weddings and gets misty-eyed during holiday gatherings, but fuck me if I haven't become that anyway.

I have fucking traditions now. Not just what my family used to do, but new traditions that I've made with Sargon. Hot chocolate, you assholes. We drink it every Christmas morning, and it's the cheapest, shittiest kind we can find, from a powder mix, and it tastes like boiled bung, but it's GREAT because that's just how we do it. We bake horrid cinnamon rolls that come from a cardboard tube. They taste fucking marvelous. That's the magic of Christmas. It turns gritty hot chocolate and stretchy cinnamon rolls with icing the consistency of spooge into a feast fit for visiting royalty. We do things a certain way that is distinctly us, and it makes all the years I did not fucking enjoy Christmas one little bit because I had no money, no presents, and one year, no goddamn tree totally worth it.

Really, I've got no idea what I'm babbling about here. It's 3 in the morning, I'm tired, full of gratuitous profanity, and I'm just sort of fuzzily happy. I just wanted to say I love Christmas, and despite how cool it is to be a Scrooge and denounce the season, not all the people who are total Christmas sluts are idiots, weenies, dupes, twatflaps, yuppie fucks, or even nice people.

I love Christmas, and I love you fuckers, and I'm just about to split I'm so goddamn glad it's December.

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naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
naamah_darling

March 2017

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