Angels I have heard while high

Alone on Christmas Morning in the Capital of the World. Families gather to eat whole hams and watch stupefying repeats of holiday classics. They exchange gifts and remember how to love. They also argue and endure soul flaying boredom.

There are two sides to the holiday season. One side is about love, family, closeness, kindness, and reunion. People coming back together to celebrate goodness and the positive potential of humanity. The other side is about crass consumerism, isolation, and hatred of blood bonds.

The tasteless, obvious critique of consumer culture and capitalism. Tone deaf denunciation of rural bigotry. Cheap, stunted, played out mockery of Christianity. Half wits straining themselves to say something naughty about jesus. We’re staging a nativity play about gay, black jesus coming into the world through the portal of Mother Mary’s anus. 

Scrolling through instagram while your sibling open their presents. Tweeting while your frail grandmother recounts an ancient episode of her life. Bringing the all encompassing distraction of your alienated, dispersed existence back home with you. I can’t wait to get back into the city where anonymous relations reign. Cash for time, an hour in a bar for sex. Everything is contractual. If you don’t like it you can renegotiate or leave.

You can quite your job. Break up with your girlfriend. Move from place to place. Try out different religions and pick up new hobbies. Change your entire cast of friends. Keep swimming in the current of the new.

But you can’t change your family. You can’t carve out a different genetic sequence that forever links you to them. The people who brought you into the world will always be those people. The place you were born will always be that place. Even though you’re meditating in a mountain hut in Bhutan, you’re still from Peoria, Illinois.

As you troll for casual sex on the streets of Tokyo, your mother worries about your safety and health. She wonders when you’re going to carry her genes on into the future. Sorry mom, I need to flood the back alleys with my wayward sperm. Having children and replicating the family structure that provided me with love and security would be oppressive.

This isolation and ennui is freedom. This angst and alienation is healthy. Loving your family, religion, and nationality is sick. If you love your parents and your homeland, it’s only a matter of time before you’re loading jews onto cattle cars. Barren buttfucking and vegan diets will bring about a communist utopia. Mixing genetic material with someone you love and trust to form new life will destroy the earth.

I have nothing to do for the next three days except think, read and write. Here’s to hoping that I make good use of my free time. Learning and reflecting rather than moping and masturbating.

Maybe it’s time to study a subject other than myself. Maybe it’s time to think of someone else’s needs rather than my own.

For now, it’s time to bake some chicken thighs in the sweet solitude of a sequestered Christmas.

Author: The Empty Subject

Born curmudgeon

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