Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals. ‘Tis the season to be jolly and all of that other stuff. If someone would care to explain to me how the calendar already says December, I would really appreciate it. I suppose time does fly when you’re
an alcoholic having fun. Why does everything seem to happen faster the older we get? When I was 8, I couldn’t wait to be 16 – and it took forrrrever to become 16. Now, all of a sudden, I am 23 years old with virtually the same maturity level I had at 16 and maybe slightly less hormonal outbursts/ obnoxious rebellions of self-expression. However, this is a conversation I will save for another time, assuming the whole Mayan apocalypse thing doesn’t pan out.
My point is, it’s December and December really only means one thing: Christmas. As you might have guessed from actually reading my blog, I take my holidays extremely seriously. Decor. Ugly sweater parties. Holiday attire. Gifts. Mistletoe. More excuses to not be sober throughout the entire month. A little Nat King Cole by the fireside. What’s not to love? By now, everyone should be familiar enough with me to know I’ll find any excuse to craft and be in costume
while heavily intoxicated. Who wants to wear normal clothes every weekend? Boring. GTFO. Take some advice from Macklemore & Ryan Lewis and hit up your local Salvation Army or Goodwill for some quality holiday threads. $4 for a ballin’ bright green sweater vest? Can’t pass up a bargain like that.
Then, we have “Santa’s List.”
As children, our parents told us we wanted to be on the Nice List so we would get more presents from Old St. Nick. It was every parent’s desperate attempt to get their spawn to try to behave like decent mini-humans for the remainder of the year. Bluffs were called. Presents were still received. Coal was always absent from the stockings. Victory, children. Sweet, sweet victory. (Unless you weren’t as manipulative as my brother and I
are were. Suckers.) Like, let’s just call a spade a spade. The whole list business is essentially parents attempting to bribe their children for some peace and quiet. Am I wrong here? I’m not saying it isn’t brilliant, but that’s pretty much what it comes down to, regarding the kiddies. At the end of the day, The Nice List isn’t for nice people, it’s just for sober boring people and naive little nuggets. Face the facts, The Naughty List is where it’s at. We have the spiked eggnog, the fatty cookies, and a plethora of fireside sex mistletoe.
Christmas, however, is a time for giving – which also means it’s a time for receiving. [Insert sexual Naughty List joke regarding giving and receiving here.] Would I be lying if I told you I don’t still make Christmas wish lists for my family that are numerically ordered according to importance? I plead the fifth. Gifts rule. And I’m poor, so buy me a
nose job new laptop, or something.
As selfish as I tend to be, I actually find immense joy in giving presents to those I love. My limited post-grad budget tends to foil most grand gestures of affection and appreciation (which really tends to screw me over in the creativity and awesomeness department), but it still doesn’t change the fact that being a giver is a rewarding experience in itself. How can you not enjoy attempting to make someone you care about happy? If there is any time of the year for true sentimentality (besides Valentine’s Day and my birthday), it is now. However, gifts are also a great way to force people to think about you! Person: “Super cute [gift or whatever]!” Friend: “Thanks! I know, right? Alex gave it to me for Christmas. She is such an amazing friend and human being and is so funny and beautiful. You should read her blog”… Boom.
See, everybody wins on Christmas… Unless you’re the girl in the classic winter tune “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” – because she’s about to get date raped.