Family, friends, and a stranger

When the bells of St Someone’s Church down the street ring out with the Mamas & the Papas, Tony Bennett, or god forbid occasionally a hymn, I usually enjoy the music, and sometimes even sing along. But when the bells are playing “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” sweet Jesus, it brings me down.

I don’t do Christmas. No regrets about that. It’s a choice, and I’ve chosen.

Coming back to Christmas might be nice, some year — exchanging gifts, hugs, maybe love — but not this year. Probably not next year. The first prerequisite would be finding someone worth the bother of Christmas, and nobody is, at least nobody I’ve yet met.

Family? Heck, no. I love ‘em and I wish ‘em all a merry Christmas, but I’ll wish it quietly, and from a thousand miles away, thanks. Most of them don’t know me well, which is my own fault — I usually kept to myself, even when they were within easy driving distance. They have their lives, which don’t much interest me, and I have mine, which doesn’t involve them.

Friends? I have so few, it’s embarrassing to count. Even Bruno, my only friend from childhood and still probably the best friend I have, hasn’t answered the post card I sent several months ago. Perhaps he begrudges my leaving town, moving to Frisco, and never even calling. Cordially, tough. I invited him to come with me when I left, but he said no, so I came alone.

Strangers? William E Noland, someone I’ve never heard of, has apparently read about this zine somewhere. He sent me a ho-ho-ho Christmas card saying, “Just a note to wish you ‘happy holidays’. I hope to send off for your publication soon.” And there’s no return address, so it’s not even a scam to get a free copy (which might’ve worked!). Thank you for the gesture, William, whoever you are, but you might as well have written it in another language. Christmas is gibberish to me. 

Please note: The above is not a plea for more cards and letters. Cripes, I don’t answer the ones I get already.

 From Pathetic Life #7
Monday, December 12, 1994

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Pathetic Life 

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  1. Christmas stinks but it can be nice if you let it.

    1. Christmases got lots better after I fell in love.


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