It’s Monday morning, a little more than a week from Christmas and an end to another year.
Since it is an early bitter winter, I turn on the television to gauge the amount of snow for the week ahead.
Instead of the obligatory, nightgowned hot weather woman, there’s Michael Bublé singing a fucking Christmas song that doesn’t need recorded or performed again this Millennium.
With his hands dug deeply into his pant’s pockets, even he seems not to believe his own bullshit… “it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…” he’s the closest heartbeat networks can run up to replace Bing?
The moment recalls my weekend.
“If I hear ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus’ or any other Christmas song again, I’m gonna stick a fork in my eyes”.
“I tried watching ‘White Christmas’ yesterday and I just cannot get through five minutes.” Nobody is like that anymore. I watch those ladies sing and dance and there just are not people like that. Corny. Sweet. Sincere.
“I didn’t even put half of my ornaments on the tree” but you know “while I was hanging the ornaments today, I wanted to stop and throw the whole thing out the window.” It’s simply the same thing over and over, again and again, year after year.
I guess I’m just so bored with it. It’s been turned into something so contrary… what made it special.
“Nothing’s special anymore.”
And that was just my wife talking last night. I don’t even know where to begin with my thoughts.