I pretty much dig the whole X-Mas card deal and the reacquainting, reconnecting, revisiting, blah, happy joy shit. I mean I know I hate people and all, because really, what’s not to hate? But, on the cold, dark and short nights, I get a little bit fuzzy, a little bit warm. The hating softens to pastel gels and wavy flashbacks and flattering light. Sunshine and puppy flavored rainbows.
Getting some good feedback on this year’s card. Throughout having this website, I’ve realized you never fucking know who might stumble out of the past. At least one old boyfriend, a couple of roommates, old friends, recent friends, real-live relations and, as it turns out, elementary school kids. Rock on the shrinking world of the inter web tubes.
I’m kind of happy, maybe proud, maybe delusional, but mostly there’s no one who’s stumbled into the scope of my consciousness who I think sucks beyond redemption. You know, a little life rule, don’t hang with the unredeemable. Unless you’re like a hitman or something cool like that, and then once you’re done hanging, bang fucking bang, bad guy is gone.
Still and all, there is one putrid worm, cue satanic imagery, wriggling up through the underworld who I never, fucking ever, not even through a lead screen and 10-foot thick concrete, suitable to block radioactive toxins, do I ever want to have contact with again. That collossal douche, perhaps even the Collossus among all douchebags in the world, just sent one of my bestest buddies a “Hey remember me, happy holidays” email.
Fucking hell.
Two thoughts occur — It could just be my own conceit that somehow the douche king is using her to somehow channel some attention from my direction. Afterall, she’s cool on her own and is one of those folks in the world who acts the social lynchpin. The thickest address book, the most current emails.
The second thing is in a completely sick way, I owe Douchey McDouche, the walking Vagisil, a debt of gratitude. He is that rock bottom, absolute low point in my life that Bill W. and the AA crew use to signal wanting to change. In my own life’s reinvention, the 12-step recovery of dating bad men and making bad relationship choices, he was the turning point. The clarion call. Redemption.
Our last communication was essentially being so drunk you vomit blood on your grandmother after letting a gang of busboys bang you in the bathroom of your sister’s wedding reception. Finally, you know what every one else has already said, enough is fucking enough, something has to change.
It was just a month shy of five years ago. I’d be due a chip and a cake, I think, in short time, for taking stock and changing my life’s course. I’ve stuck to the program and haven’t fallen off the shitty, asshole, low-self-esteem-inducing boys wagon.
I guess evil exists, and emails our friends, to remind us of the light and joy and goodness.