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This year, my family decided to go with a Secret Santa system for family gifts, so instead of everyone buying everyone 494603437 things, everyone just has one gift to buy each. For me, the eternal poor relation, this is a relief on the level of a piano being lifted off my chest.
It hasn't eliminated my seasonal angst, fear and loathing, only given it one less sensible reason to exist. I still hate almost everything about this holiday: the forced jollity, the shoppers' siege mentality, the flavour of disappointed expectation that permeates every adult's mood like rancid butter in mashed potatoes.
Don't get me wrong. I love you all. I want you all to have a wonderful time with love and tinsel and gravy and an apple and an orange and a pony and a shiny red bike and an X-box. But I want that for you every day of every year; it annoys crap out of me that I have a date and a fucking deadline it's supposed to happen on. It makes no sense; and I loathe expectations and obligations above all things.
So I won't be sending you cards, but you knew that. I'm not doing presents except for one family member and baby niece - unless you're on Subeta, because I happen to be a multimillionaire in Subeta play-money and I can - but even there I'd much rather shower people with presents on random occasions as the mood takes me.
And yeah, I'll have a good day on the day. I always do, because I am insanely lucky enough to have a family that consists of great people I actually enjoy spending time with. I'd still opt out, given the choice.
So I don't wish any of you a happy Christmas. I wish you all health, wealth and joy greater than you've ever known, spread evenly over 365 days to keep it in manageable doses. I wish you love and joy and desire and fulfillment and beauty and no more sorrow than the absolute minimum required to appreciate the good parts. I wish that for you every day, summer or winter.
And I do not wish you Christmas music, except for this one song, the only one I can bear. I love it so.
It hasn't eliminated my seasonal angst, fear and loathing, only given it one less sensible reason to exist. I still hate almost everything about this holiday: the forced jollity, the shoppers' siege mentality, the flavour of disappointed expectation that permeates every adult's mood like rancid butter in mashed potatoes.
Don't get me wrong. I love you all. I want you all to have a wonderful time with love and tinsel and gravy and an apple and an orange and a pony and a shiny red bike and an X-box. But I want that for you every day of every year; it annoys crap out of me that I have a date and a fucking deadline it's supposed to happen on. It makes no sense; and I loathe expectations and obligations above all things.
So I won't be sending you cards, but you knew that. I'm not doing presents except for one family member and baby niece - unless you're on Subeta, because I happen to be a multimillionaire in Subeta play-money and I can - but even there I'd much rather shower people with presents on random occasions as the mood takes me.
And yeah, I'll have a good day on the day. I always do, because I am insanely lucky enough to have a family that consists of great people I actually enjoy spending time with. I'd still opt out, given the choice.
So I don't wish any of you a happy Christmas. I wish you all health, wealth and joy greater than you've ever known, spread evenly over 365 days to keep it in manageable doses. I wish you love and joy and desire and fulfillment and beauty and no more sorrow than the absolute minimum required to appreciate the good parts. I wish that for you every day, summer or winter.
And I do not wish you Christmas music, except for this one song, the only one I can bear. I love it so.
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