let’s hear those sleigh bells ringing…
i want to watch a god die.
i mean, physically. i really want to see it.
crucifixion. discorporation. hanging.
or even a good old burning at the stake.
someone needs to pay.
there needs to be bloodshed.
the mortals have suffered long enough. it is time for a more divine justice.
i find it hard to hate life. i find it really hard to look around and convince myself that the world is an ugly and terrible place. this week, that hasn’t been very difficult at all.
there are reasons, and with your permission (or even without it), i will tell you all about them.
i’ve been written up at work, actually something they call a step 2. there are only three steps and then they kick your lazy slacker ass to the curb and suggest that you go back to flipping burgers or pushing carts in sanford, you miserable piece of shit why can’t you get you act together? or maybe they just say that to me. as punishment, they were going to take away my previously requested vacation time. this would mean not going up to the top of the world for a perfect norman rockwell christmas in the middle of the forgotten maine backwoods where there are no headaches, no bosses, no papers to write, and generally no problems at all except the ever possible threat of an empty tequila bottle. so i fought with HR and made a lifelong enemy of my new boss.
but i won.
got my days off.
fuck you,
boss.
so then i foolishly begin to think that maybe life isn’t horribly mean and maybe, just maybe the gods of the winter solstice have remembered me for my piety and will bestow upon me a happy family holiday that doesn’t suck sweaty, furry reindeer balls. ha ha, chris you silly little boy, how did you get to be so naive?
so my grandmother had a stroke. i’d be lying if i were to tell you that i hold no resentment for this.
my grandmother has been busy doing the thing grandmothers do, by which i don’t mean that she’s been baking christmas cookies and going shopping for all of my favorite star wars toys, complete with mini-blasters and extendable lightsabers. i mean she’s been wasting away in the wheelchair of a nursing home with a degenerative form of vascular dementia that causes her body to shut down in slow and miserable stages for no other reason than because the good lord is kind and benevolent and all knowing and all caring and there’s a magnificent thing called providence which means that his laws are not are laws and hallelujah can i get a praise jesus? and, of course, being a kind and wonderful lady (sincerely not a joke, the woman was never anything but a beloved saint to me), she has no means for getting anyone a real gift in the commercially acceptable sort of way, so instead she decides to offer the only thing anyone has ever wanted from her in these past few years – her death.
(good lord, i know i sound mean and truly i am, but what i’m trying to say here is that watching your motherwifegrandmotherfriendaunt fade away in the shell of a body that used to be a living person but has now become some sort of mean spirited practical joke on the part of angry and vindictive gods whose sole purpose is to torture anyone with the audacity to try to live into the so-called golden years, tends to make people a little cynical and jaded in regard to all things living or dead (or dying-but-pretending-to-be-living).)
so this is the stage she’s in, a stage known medically, scientifically, philosophically as “living, sort of.” she sleeps and she sleeps and then occasionally she is in a state that resembles being awake. i’ve long since come to terms with the fact that i would like it if my grandmother died and honestly i don’t think that requires any more explaining than what i’ve already offered here or in other similarly whiny posts about age, senility, and the futility of life. i think you probably understand where i’m coming from, even if i’m making you a little uneasy by my callous assessments of this particular heavenly practical joke.
(as a personal aside here: if your name is jesus, i’d like you to rot in hell while eating your own shit)
due to present circumstances, i’m most likely not getting my perfect norman rockwell christmas with my lovely little darling in the perfect maine woods on the top of a hill surrounded by trees and dogs and snow and caringloving people who have adopted me as their son and would like nothing more than to make me happy and drunk on familyloveandlatenighttequilahappiness. instead i will most likely sit in an uncomfortable room that smells like piss, listening to the tortured screams of people who have perpetually forgotten where or who they are as they beg for help from orderlies and nurses who only care when these disgusting and irrelevant carcasses will realize they’re dead in order to temporarily fall asleep so that a decent working living person can take a fucking break and eat for five goddamned uninterrupted minutes. and here i will sit, waiting for the last few painful breaths to escape the decrepit frame of a human that i can vaguely pretend used to be the old lady who made me peanut butter cookies topped with hershey’s kisses and bought me countless happy meals just so i could play on the slide and get cheap plastic toys from magical folding cardboard meal boxes. and i will hate gods.
but first, i will write papers. i will write a thousand more papers (or maybe just three papers that feel like a thousand) because i can’t find five goddamned seconds to do anything fun or constructive because the whole fucking world is falling down all around me without explanation or remorse. i’m not atlas and i won’t pretend that the weight of the fucking world sits on my shoulders but i will tell you that it would be swell, real fucking hunky-dory groovy peachy keen fantastic if something somewhere would go right like maybe all the asshole bosses on the planet who seek nothing more than making life miserable for people would die painfully in fires, screaming in unison that they were personally responsible for bringing about the end of the world, or even something simpler and more realistic, like the possibility that i could catch a break and maybe the door i try to open would be the one that works, and maybe my coat wouldn’t get stuck in the door, and maybe i wouldn’t catch my head right on the corner of that same fucking shelf, and maybe, possibly just for a day or two i wouldn’t run out of gas or fall on the ice or get a cold for the THIRD FUCKING TIME THIS YEAR!!
but, instead i’ll probably just sit back and hate all the gods of winter.
i tried, mithra. i really fucking tried. there’s no one i like honoring more than your celestial and ungrateful ass.
saturn, i gave it a fucking whirl.
so invictus, we’ve had a real fucking chucklefest.
sinterklaas, you’ve been a true pal.
now i want you to die.
i want to watch you all hurt, you miserable fucking wretches. i’ve called krampus and he knows exactly what to do. i hope it’s painful for you horrible costumed freaks of the kalends.
i’ve got calvary and golgotha reserved.
rented some room on yggdrasil.
the valley of gog and magog is open.
megiddo is nice this time of year.
you pick the place and i’ll bring the nails.
possibly a stake, or just some rope.
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