happy or else.

by dorarandom

3)      i’m not quite sure why i was numbering everything last night.

1)       a number of things about that entry don’t quite make sense. i realize. i was plowing through a bottle of wine, trying to psych myself up to look at the new dating apps i put on my new phone. and i never did get there—just rambled to you and then passed out. today i feel disgusting and hopeless. i don’t want to get out of bed. i don’t want to have to look at my fucking apartment. (i don’t mean that it’s a shambles; i mean i just don’t want to have to look at it. i don’t want to look at things i’ve never wanted and i’ve seen a thousand times.) i don’t want to look at boring pictures of boring men. i want to lay in bed and dream about big hipster butchers with big hipster beards. in long handsome aprons. who never, ever tell me i’m a bad influence. except i don’t—or i shouldn’t—because then i’ll feel even more disgusting and hopeless.

just a straight-up depression morning.

with christmas music ready to pounce on me as soon as i step out the door. oh, i know it’s out there. ready to make me feel somehow certainly even worse.

i think it’s the music that’s made me hate christmas. i’d like to blame the music, anyway. rather think that i just heard ‘rockin around the christmas tree’ one too many times than that i have a naturally coal-black heart.

actually—like a lot of people who had miserable childhoods, i’m not big on holidays, but i used to like christmas just fine. it’s only in the past couple of years—in my old age—that i’ve started to find christmas fucking intolerable. and i’m not entirely sure why. maybe it is just the month and a half of awful music. that is sufficient cause. but it probably has more to do with the fact that you’re supposed to be happy—as i told my therapist, ‘i don’t want to hate it. i try to like it. but i guess i don’t really do well with things where you’re supposed to be happy.’ ‘i’m beginning to get the impression that you don’t do well with things where you’re supposed to be anything.’ ‘that…that may be accurate.’

my official #1 most-hated christmas song of all time has always been ‘silver bells’—but this year i find ‘it’s the most wonderful time of the year’ is overtaking it in loathesomeness. unexpected! ‘silver bells’ is a vile song—i mean, i just hate the sound of it—and i hate the lazy songwriters who were too lazy to even put words in it (ring-a-ling! ting ting ting! yeah that rhymes that’s gold, baby)—and bing crosby was a sadist who abused his children and the song is about traffic and shopping. it’s the worst. but. ‘it’s the most wonderful time of the year’, it’s got all that supposed-to-be that sets my teeth on edge. (‘it’s the most wonderful time of the year? is it? go to hell.’) that horrible coercive merriment. seriously, i hear that song and i have this vision of it playing on the soundtrack of a supposed-to-be funny-edgy indie film while one of the minor characters blows his brains out. i think it would also work well for a documentary short about homeless people freezing to death. (if they would rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population! bah humbug!)

um. well. i do like ‘deck the halls.’ and i should add a random public service announcement here: suicide rates do not in fact increase during the holidays. that’s a myth. i guess grouchy old goats like me just get a little grouchier. (but is that a myth too? a brief google is not informative. i hope it isn’t—cause man, that would make me feel even lonelier.)

a not so random public service announcement: this is a sure antidote to an afternoon in a mall with ‘all i want for christmas is you.’ i know peter bellamy is not to everyone’s taste. i get it. but whether you like it or not, it’s good for what ails you. a good honest drone to blast all the nonsense out. i just listened to it and i think i now have the fortitude to take a shower! (‘christmas is now drawing near at hand’ is always an excellent choice too. has a great line about people ‘whose conversation God doth much dislike’….!  i mean that is austere, man. that is some austere shit. definitely good for the soul.)