Bring It On, Fat Man

I am feeling feisty and furious about Christmas this year.
At any moment I fear I could snap and slap Santa silly like Sam Spade slaps Joel Cairo in The Maltese Falcon.

I’m feeling in limbo – existing in the interstitial space between “what I am” and “what I could be”.

And all that forced corporate peace, goodwill, and love being heralded from everyone selling anything just makes me want to truss and cook Cupid in a slow oven (the cherub, not the reindeer – although if Santa doesn’t back off the deer gets it, too).

When folks start to wonder why he’s not flitting around in February waving his arrow in their faces, I’ll simply shrug and pretend that I don’t have Tupperware full of leftover Cupid stashed in my freezer.

Next year I may be caroling a different tune, but this year I’ll be damned if I let a fat man with shitty Coca-Cola fashion sense judge whether I have been good or bad.

Such an angry little red-haired elf.

Angry because 99% of me doesn’t want to buy into any of it.

Angrier because I know what a capitalist scam it is and I still can’t stop that 1% of me from wanting to participate.

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