Christmas – the dismal ghost of yet another December thirty-first is creeping closer and closer, like some maniacal, red-faced behemoth. It stinks of greed, copper, and dead pine trees rotting by the curb. Its scream is already ringing in my ears by October, the sound of jingles, plastic bubble wrap and sheer falsity.
Because spending your last pay check on Great Uncle Ronaldo’s back massager is not going to make you a better person. Because “holiday spirit” is unrealistic, and department stores don’t want your happiness, they want your damn money. Because love isn’t bought with Nintendo Wiis.
Don’t look at me like that when I say I hate Christmas. Haven’t you noticed? That for this holiday, you are willing to commit murder for a half-priced television set. That you try to guilt others into giving a nickel to a charity, but two weeks later you utterly forget about those homeless people, those cancer patients. That you pretend your children will forever adore you if you purchase that telescope. That you act as though your affection is adequately conveyed by sending some generic e-card with an automatically-generated message to the entire family.
Any religious meaning this holiday might have had is utterly lost. We are utterly lost, in the fake sense of “joy” and “nostalgia” we act as though we feel. We become insufferable Scrooges, every one of us, calculating the total net value of everything we’ve been given, grumbling behind our present-wrapping, cookie-baking exteriors. We become consumed by the disgusting consumerism the country wallows in, as our heads are bombarded by stress and vibrant BUY THIS! BUY THIS! ads.
There might have been a time I loved this holiday. When I was too young to understand. But I think I’ve always seen it, the edge to the plastic smiles Christmas inspires in everyone. A lie wrapped in a bright red bow.
You break my heart, Christmas, every time you come around. And I don’t think I can ever forgive you for it.