Dear Christmas Nazis, Thanksgiving advocates, and those on holiday power trips:
I have seasonal depression. Come mid-November, my skin pales and my dopamine levels plummet at the speed of light. I lie in bed a lot, cry in my hot cocoa, and lose faith in humanity about five times a week (as opposed to the two during any other season). Basically I’m in a four month coma, connected to my two life support tubes: Christmas and KU basketball.
So when you whiny bastards yank on the Christmas plug before I’m ready to die, I have to lash out.
First and foremost, you are not in charge of anything. You are not Father Time. You are not a calendar maker. You are a holiday hustler who’s in bed with the Thanksgiving turkey. You have no authority in telling me the exact minute I’m allowed to turn on Christmas music and put up a tree.
And on that note, fuck Thanksgiving.
All it does is impede the glorious consummation of Christmas and give douche bags like you a reason to shove your Grinch ideology down my throat. Why am I obliged to give thanks to your God with a holiday that instigates obesity? Perhaps I can give thanks to the Mayan sun god by sacrificing a virgin (if I could find one) on Wescoe Beach. I just don’t really want to celebrate the arrival of sexually-oppressed Puritan pilgrims, especially in the unpleasant company of my family. I can extend gratitude on my own; I don’t need a holiday. So I’ll pass on Thanksgiving and go straight to Christmas.
Then you guys want to throw in my face that Christmas is a religious holiday, asking me why I celebrate it if I don’t believe in God.
Nice try, but you’re not clever. I’m still going to play Christmas music during the last week of October. I’m just doing what you Cafeteria Christians do best: pick and choose the most convenient aspects of religion, Christmas traditions reigning supreme. It may be Jesus’ birthday, but I’m only crashing it for the Peppermint Schnapps and catchy music. Jesus doesn’t rock around my Christmas tree, nor does he bake my holiday cookies. The only thing Jesus has done for me is give me a reason to sin. (Thanks, by the way.)
So all I’m asking is for you to fuck off. Please. I’m going to do what makes me happy and continue basking in the majesty of Christmas. Just keep snorting Prozac off the Thanksgiving table, and be sure to pass the stuffing to that family member that you hate.
Photo credits: "Presents Opening Children" by Rob Sheridan