'Did You Give Me This Because It Features an Asian Man Breaking Down?'
Haha look ma. Now I can post at night, not just early in the morning. I bet that tickles you. I bet you're extremely impressed.
I have a lot on my mind this evening. Couldn't tell you why. Holidays make me pensive. Which is totally retarded. Our great great great great great grandparents knew, and I don't care where they hail from, they knew that holidays were about fucking partying. Feasting, dancing, drinking, making masks, lighting fires. Drunken, ecstatic communion with the gods. When was the last time you had ecstatic communion with the gods? How little Christmas has to do with any of that. It has everything to do with "holiday stress," and your credit score, and guilt and responsibility and round yon virgin. I don't get it. We put up a fucking pine tree in the house and we still can't manage to get stupid and giggly.
I am a Christmas slut, I told Valerie and Gia today. I am a fucking slut about buying gifts. I love it. Doesn't even matter what the occasion is. I am meticulous about picking a gift that I hope will be two-thirds reflective of the recipient's personality, and one-third my own. I am meticulous about picking wrapping paper that will be appropriate for all the gifts I will be giving. I match each bow I put on each gift to the paper and the recipient. I even look at the little pictures on the tag ("Hmm … is Friend X more of a reindeer or an angel? Reindeer. Definitely reindeer").
I don't know what it is about giving presents that I like so much. I just hope they smile and laugh. I hope the present is a little bit of myself so they don't forget me. I hope they remember that I did something that pleased them for a short while.
I am terrified of dying.
I know that's kind of a retarded thing to put in the middle of an entry about presents, but this is a livejournal after all. I guess it's kind of the elephant in the room. The turd in the punch bowl. If you still have a livejournal account, and you don't talk about death once in a while, well you go right ahead and fuck yourself.
The truth is, I don't think anything happens when you die. Well I mean obviously you die. But I think it's just over. I think it's exactly like how you are before you're born. When I am being 100 percent honest with myself, that is what I think.
But what I feel is completely different.
I feel that there's just too much to stop. It's like you're building up all this momentum, you're going one foot in front of the other, and then you're done? I feel like I am entitled, goddamnit, to SOMETHING, whether it's hell or heaven or a good long chat over lukewarm tea with a bunch of folks who didn't quite make the cut for either. I feel like I am too complicated and caught up to just cease, to just hang out for one blink of a geological eye. I feel like too many people are dead-set on the idea of something else for it to have absolutely no basis in maybe kind of reality. I feel like the idea has persisted for too long to be a fairy tale.
But there are some pretty old fairy tales floating around out there, too.
Christmas and death aren't so seperate from one another. The only reason we celebrate it in the first place is because the person whose alleged birthday it is dies a martyr's death 33 years later. We are celebrating his birth so we can wait around for him today. Happy goddamn birthday. O Come Emmanuel, rather.
Death always seems present at our Christmases, too. It seems like as kids we were always being cajoled into being extra nice to a certain ailing relative, like I always had to sing O Holy Night, because "We dont' know how many Christmases 'Relative X' has left."
How many Christmases do you have left?
I have a lot on my mind this evening. Couldn't tell you why. Holidays make me pensive. Which is totally retarded. Our great great great great great grandparents knew, and I don't care where they hail from, they knew that holidays were about fucking partying. Feasting, dancing, drinking, making masks, lighting fires. Drunken, ecstatic communion with the gods. When was the last time you had ecstatic communion with the gods? How little Christmas has to do with any of that. It has everything to do with "holiday stress," and your credit score, and guilt and responsibility and round yon virgin. I don't get it. We put up a fucking pine tree in the house and we still can't manage to get stupid and giggly.
I am a Christmas slut, I told Valerie and Gia today. I am a fucking slut about buying gifts. I love it. Doesn't even matter what the occasion is. I am meticulous about picking a gift that I hope will be two-thirds reflective of the recipient's personality, and one-third my own. I am meticulous about picking wrapping paper that will be appropriate for all the gifts I will be giving. I match each bow I put on each gift to the paper and the recipient. I even look at the little pictures on the tag ("Hmm … is Friend X more of a reindeer or an angel? Reindeer. Definitely reindeer").
I don't know what it is about giving presents that I like so much. I just hope they smile and laugh. I hope the present is a little bit of myself so they don't forget me. I hope they remember that I did something that pleased them for a short while.
I am terrified of dying.
I know that's kind of a retarded thing to put in the middle of an entry about presents, but this is a livejournal after all. I guess it's kind of the elephant in the room. The turd in the punch bowl. If you still have a livejournal account, and you don't talk about death once in a while, well you go right ahead and fuck yourself.
The truth is, I don't think anything happens when you die. Well I mean obviously you die. But I think it's just over. I think it's exactly like how you are before you're born. When I am being 100 percent honest with myself, that is what I think.
But what I feel is completely different.
I feel that there's just too much to stop. It's like you're building up all this momentum, you're going one foot in front of the other, and then you're done? I feel like I am entitled, goddamnit, to SOMETHING, whether it's hell or heaven or a good long chat over lukewarm tea with a bunch of folks who didn't quite make the cut for either. I feel like I am too complicated and caught up to just cease, to just hang out for one blink of a geological eye. I feel like too many people are dead-set on the idea of something else for it to have absolutely no basis in maybe kind of reality. I feel like the idea has persisted for too long to be a fairy tale.
But there are some pretty old fairy tales floating around out there, too.
Christmas and death aren't so seperate from one another. The only reason we celebrate it in the first place is because the person whose alleged birthday it is dies a martyr's death 33 years later. We are celebrating his birth so we can wait around for him today. Happy goddamn birthday. O Come Emmanuel, rather.
Death always seems present at our Christmases, too. It seems like as kids we were always being cajoled into being extra nice to a certain ailing relative, like I always had to sing O Holy Night, because "We dont' know how many Christmases 'Relative X' has left."
How many Christmases do you have left?