I am scrooge and I do not like Christmas. It’s not like I don’t like giving and making presents, it is one of the last joys as an adult, to reconnect with childhood and really think about the person you are aiming at. But it gets hard when you want to show your love through a gift but you can’t, you don’t know how to personify through an object, or you don’t have the time, or your packages get stolen, you have the best intentions but life gets in the way. There is a lot of pressure to make someone feel as special as they are. This is why I don’t like Christmas, the personal feelings of not being good enough at this American holiday. I try so hard to remember what this is supposed to be about, about family and appreciating your friends and realizing how everyone enriches your life. It has gotten so backwards that you have giver’s guilt, that you manifest present regret. Why have I sucked everything good about this holiday and made it about myself? It’s hard when you want to express your love, but you don’t have the right material possessions to do that. I am trying to make this holiday about what it should be, not about a fat man’s generosity. Peace and love my friends, and may your heart be satisfied with what you can attribute to this world with your warm fingertips, tight hugs, and diamond eyes.
My cramps and overall terrible nature of the side effect pertaining to the my period get worst, albeit only marginally, every month. At this point in my almost mid thirties, it’s like that my heritage and evolutionary demands are mad at me for being childless, for going not being pregnant month after month, for not exercising the full extent of my uterus. A determined army of ninjas drum a little louder every month, a chorus of knocking knees nag louder, and pack of miniature bears claw a little more frantically every month.
No no it’s not that aching uterus complex that people talk about, it’s not that ticking clock that people refer to, I am talking about the revenge of the demon gods of my ancestors. Slowly they are shedding my insides, angry at my refusal to follow into my path of female role fulfillment. Grrrr curse you back you monster of genetics! You phantoms of routine! You ghosts of nature’s past! Back off, and let a woman work for a living.