Christmas Wrapping

I sat, crossed-legged on the cold, faux laminate floor today, wrapping presents.  Each one had a different variant of Christmas-themed paper, one holly, one ivy, one fairy, one some sort of terrible garish tartan that the only thing deserving of being wrapped in it would be a set of bagpipes.  Because the only person I would ever dream of giving bagpipes to would be that man at the station who called me a twat.  I might be a twat, sir, but you, sir, you, sir, are a Cunt.

I like Christmas, in its way, but like my birthday, it reminds me incessantly of the slow march towards death.  It inevitably recalls the lost magic of my youth, and the ever-growing tragedy of another year I've done fuck-all with.  Every year the pile of Christmas cards grows smaller, like it has The Shrinks, and neighbours die, and the round robin letter those most loathed people send becomes a tally of divorce and demise and little Sophie got AIDs this year and apart from her crippling heroin addiction we can't think how.

I do really like Christmas.  I just don't like mine.

It could've been worse; at least I didn't do the song.