Merry Christmas (or die in the attempt)

I love Christmas, or rather I really really want to. A for effort defiantly, but one of the many differences between school and reality is that no one give a tupenny fuck how hard you try.

I suppose what really don’t want is to end up looking like one of those Christmas miserablists, the type who doesn’t really dislike Christmas but thinks that a scrooge posture and cynics rhetoric will lend them a borrowed air of intellectualism, as if intelligence and excitement can’t exist at once, and their sneering commentary will lift them above the tinseled masses.

I refuse to become that person, even if the magic of Christmas seems to be more faded and tarnished the older I get. Lets face it, Christmas through the eyes of any half sentient adult is an easy target, it can be the crass commercial nightmare that people accuse it of being, used to sell anything from electric ovens to vibrating cock rings. Maybe its easy to dismiss as such, maybe for my Christmas to be magic I have to work at it being magic, putting every bit of energy that an excited ten year puts into it.

This year I promise to do that, to work at making it special. Force myself to look past its cosmetic flaws and see the magic underneath, the magic that kids have always been able to see.

Right, I’m off to think of some really good presents, fucking make them if I have to. Drink Bailys and watch Scrooged fifteen fucking times in a row.