From Pathetic Life #7
Sunday, December 25, 1994
Sincerely, I hope you had a marvelous Christmas.
Chances are, though, you spent this holy day revisiting all the traditional family arguments, adding a few new ones, trying and perhaps failing to keep your temper in check.
I’ve been there and done that enough to last a lifetime, so instead I stayed in my room and reveled in the solitude. I read and wrote, ate some prunes and two microwaved egg sandwiches, read some more, listened to the Rolling Stones, washed the dishes, took out some trash that was smelling funky, killed a roach on the wall, fed the roach in a jar, dropped a massive prune-lubricated dump, blew soap bubbles out the window, read more, wrote a little, listened to Aaron Copeland, and thought about doing the laundry but didn’t.
Other things I didn’t do include calling my family, or thinking much about Christmas, or going anywhere, doing anything, seeing anyone, wrapping anything, unwrapping anything, or making chit-chat with anyone. It occurs to me now that I haven’t said a word to anyone all day except myself.
Now there’s one more paragraph in me, and after that I’m going to sleep.
And so this is Christmas, but it was just a typical day in my room at the rez hotel. Let there be no misunderstanding, though: This was the best of all possible Xmases, at least for me. I gave myself a marvelous gift — the gift of not going home for the holidays.
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.
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