Like many adult Americans, I prefer to be intoxicated on Christmas day. Some call this addiction. I call it self-medicating for the benefit of others.
Purple = sober and confused.
I’m not a role model, or a regular person. I’m alone on Christmas because I’m belligerent and undiplomatic by nature. I lack the ability to mask contempt or disdain. Just days ago, I told three separate strangers to go kill themselves. I make jokes and draw comics to keep from screaming death threats at people.
Oh, and if at all possible, I try to stay high, all the time.
My parents are dead, and there’s no children to justify decorating the house. There’s no one to wrap presents for, or trim a tree. Everyone fucked off to be with their families, or whomever. If this sounds sad to you, well, Christmas is sad. It’s happy for kids who have no idea where all the shiny free stuff came from. For the rest of us, it’s a real pain in the ass, top to bottom.
Why am I even writing about this? Because I’m sober. Because my plans for holiday cheer got fucked, through no fault of my own. This is the way it goes. I’m not meant to be happy and cheerful on Christmas. I’m destined to suck it up and pretend to be.
That’s what Christmas is, folks. Shutting the fuck up about your own problems and pretending to be happy, for the benefit of others. That’s why it’s fine that I’m sober as a judge. It’s funny. Me being sober on Christmas while trying to conceal a burning desire to murder every single person on Earth is funny. Me stoned, and glued to a couch while watching Bad Santa for the 100th time, is not.
Also funny is how, in my brutal desperation to get high, I am resorting to “carb-hits” on my favorite pipe. That’s when you put your thumb over the bowl, and pull the flame through the carb, toasting all the sticky black resin trapped inside the pipe. It works, a little, but it tastes like a melted radial tire. More than once, I have accidentally inhaled superheated coal through the pipe stem. It’s actually less embarrassing than how we used to get high in jail; by sticking our head in the toilet, to hide the smoke.
I had weed. I sold all of it gave it all away, in the spirit of Christmas! Then I had none. It’s like Gift of the Magi, except without the satisfying conclusion. It’s just me, staring at the wall and contemplating seppuku.
I have rum, my favorite liquor, but nothing to mix it with. I would’ve bought Coke, but that shit is loaded with caffeine, and without weed, I’d be wide awake all night. I used to use Diet Coke (the kind without caffeine), but it’s full of aspartame, and I don’t feel like spending the holidays developing multiple sclerosis or Parkinson’s.
So instead, I’m spending it writing this crap. I’m not alone; Vern is on hand to provide the cheer and mirth that only a dwarf hamster can. We’ll probably watch Laurel & Hardy in March of the Wooden Soldiers together, if he doesn’t fall asleep. Vern is a meatball with fur and feet, and it’s his first Christmas. We’re gonna have a blast, even though I already ate the peanuts I bought for his present. (He ate one, and got slightly fat!)
Anyway, here’s hoping, as sincerely as I can, that you’re having a great day (whether you’re celebrating, angry, or in-between). Remember; Christmas, like sobriety, is only temporary.
Happy holidays from Matty & Vern.
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