Good morning, Chickens.
Christmas: the sentiment of it is great, giving gifts to people and all that, not the Jesus stuff. My mother used to try to get me to accept that Christmas was all about the baby Jesus being born, or whatever. She loves the nativity scene she gets to set up under the tree every year, or at least she used to. I think the most beautiful thing at Christmas time is watching a grown man have a sugar seizure from eating too many chocolates and writhing on the floor, drooling.
We (my youngest sibling and I) used to rearrange the wise-men into compromising and suggestive positions, myrrh giving gold a blowie behind the manger, or the donkey taking it from behind by Joseph. You know, normal sexual things.
Since I like to think of myself as a sceptical, scientific loser, Jesus has nothing to do with Christmas. By some calendar somewhere, either the Gregorian or the one we used before the Romans, it is Sir Isaac Newton’s birthday. Without that man, we wouldn’t have gravity. Well, it would exist, but mathematics would be so much duller. So, that is what I use to explain the hysteria associated with Christmas time.
Forgive me, I feel strange. There are no assignments to complete, no papers to write, and no classes to attend for another 1.75 weeks. When the school year begins, the very normal sentiment of wanting it to be winter break is usually felt at least 5 kilometres from campus (or 3.1 miles for your crazy imperial country called America), at all times—in a form of a shockwave that could decimate small villages.
Then it comes. Break arrives and after having too many things to do and places to be, the sudden halt of momentum is enough to drive anyone crazy.
What to do?
I could work on my 40 page thesis, but then I’d feel guilty that I’m not taking the time off by actually doing nothing. It may be different for others, those who have family in the same city they are in; having someplace they feel obligated to go; some things that they feel obligated to do. I have no such limit. I am in school to be in school, not because it’s what you do after high-school. I live right smack-dab in the middle of both of my parents’ residencies, and so do not go anyplace I do not want to go.
But it goes even further than that. I get incredibly lazy this time of year. I can’t organize my house, or clean my room, or do my laundry, or wake up at a decent hour. I am supposed to feel gluttonous; sloth-y.
I guess I’ll wake up one day and it’ll be time to go to class and I’ll rollover in my bed and tangle up my sheets, and not want to go anyplace that isn’t covered in blankets. It’s so cold here in the winter; getting to school is a real bitch.
In one breath, I’m saying that the time-off makes me lazy, and in the other, that time-on makes me rue the day when all I had to do was reach out and pick my nose with a candy cane. I don’t know what the frack.
I suppose I’m just never happy. I don’t have it together. I am a walking sack of meat whose skin is the only thing from keeping her from going every-which-way all at once. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to grow up. Maybe I should pray for it; mom would be happy.
I’ll make a date with Frankincense and lust after the lying virgin who was definitely real and never cheated on her fool of a husband who was more concerned with lodging than ghosts impregnating his wife’s coslopus.
Yeah. That’ll work.
Pingback: Hot Shit, Cousin Ed! « My Naked Ass