Fuck Christmas

I used to love Christmas. I still enjoy decorating for Christmas. As a glorious pirate king, my abilities to acquire Christmas lights and other assorted Christmas decorations is limitless so I am able to really deck a house out with the Christmas spirit. I still find enjoyment in that aspect of the holiday season. And I also enjoy giving people presents, which as a pirate king allows me all kinds of avenues in which to excel. But that’s it. Take those two things away and I fucking hate Christmas. Actually, even with those two things I still hate it. There is not a day, or actually a month, in which I want to kill myself more. Just the reminder of the “holiday season” makes me insanely depressed. Before I became a father I couldn’t wait for Christmas. The “holiday season” was my shit. As a child Christmas was the one day a year that I was safe from my father. It’s probably the only day in my life that I’ve never caught a beating, there maybe a few others but I wouldn’t guarantee that. I grew up in the rocky mountains of Colorado and so it was always a winter wonderland. Christmas was always a beautiful snowy dream, cold as fuck but beautiful as beautiful can get. For me Christmas is all about family, about being with those that you love and enjoying their company. Really, it’s about the children and the memories that they make. So when I became a father I was stoked for Christmas. I couldn’t wait for being able to stoke my kids out and give them the greatest memories of a day that was up to that point, my favorite day of the year. My first 3 Christmases as a father were awesome. We would have the house completely decked out, lit up so bright you could probably see that shit from the moon. There were so many presents under the Christmas tree that they pretty much consumed the living room. I still remember the smile on my daughters face when she realized that all of those presents were for her. I loved being a father. The day that my daughter was born was the first day ever that I knew what I wanted to do with my life. It was the day I learned what love was and it was the first time in 25 years that I was actually happy, that I actually felt like I was ok. The first time I ever looked forward to my future and was excited. And as quickly as all that came upon me, it was gone. The day my daughter was born was the day that the Jason I’d been for 25 years died, and a new, better, purer Jason was born. That Jason was the best version of me possible. Happy, positive, hopeful, excited. I woke up everyday vibrating from such a high frequency that it was magical. I don’t remember one day in the 3 years that I had my daughter in which I wasn’t happy, in which I wasn’t elated to be alive, which if you know me really says something. And then it was gone. The day I lost my daughter was the day that that pure Jason began to die, and as I sat in prison and realized that my baby mom was gonna be a fucking bitch and keep my daughter away from me that Jason finally died and I buried his ass in a Colorado prison yard. The Jason that replaced him was ugly. Really ugly, possibly evil. He has died as well being replaced by another Jason who has died as well. This Jason, the one I am now, he’s probably like the 5th or 6th. He’s not ugly or evil, but he’s scared as fuck and he’s nothing compared to the one I buried in prison. Anyways, I fucking hate Christmas now. I can’t stand the Christmas spirit. There are not enough drugs on the planet to numb me from the feelings and emotions that I’m suffering from right now. I can’t help but wonder about how my daughters Christmases are going, about what they’re gonna get and about the memories that they are making. Memories that I am absent from. Nothing makes me want to pull the trigger worse. I wish I could run or hide from this, but I can’t. In fact Christmas magnifies the whole situation, it brings it right in front of me and bashes me in the face with it. Fuck Christmas. Can this just be over already? Please.

Published by devilmonkey666

I'm a hot mess. A 41 year old child who still doesn't know what he wants to be when he grows up. Or even if he wants to grow up for that matter. People say I'm a writer. I'm not so sure. But it is therapeutic and helps me from going all the way left sometimes.

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