I wanna make it....I wanna make it wit chu.

End of the weekend. One month until Christmas. That leaves thirty days to work up the courage for a visit to the hell-on-Earth known as Woodgrove Mall. Thirty days to ensure that through proper purchasing practice I will appease my family and close friends for an entire year with some heartfelt knick knack. Perhaps a festive tie, or, more appropriately, a 26 of booze so they can get drunk enough to tongue-grope someone nasty under the mistletoe and remember the tenderness at least through New Years.
Something about the holidays brings out the bitter in me. As much as I shamelessly love decimating stockings while hung over on Christmas morning, something about the whole sickly sweet ordeal makes me physically ill. No lies, ask anyone related to me, I am hacking up shit and clutching wads of tissue every December 25th, but I usually bust some Baileys into my coffee and drink until I don't really care. Shit, seriously, I feel kinda guilty slamming hard bar with my grandparents while the friggin baby Jesus glares down at me from the nativity scene, but there's really no other way to survive this precious time of year. I hate the shopping, the three-minute gift deflowering, and the heaps of subsequent garbage that choke every corner of the living room leaving no space for my boxed candle sets and Hanes Her Way extra large reinforced-crotch polyblend granny panties. I never have the heart to make it clear I will be exchanging the sexy underoos for $18 ass floss cuz somehow I think it'll get me more play.
Speaking of play. I haven't heard from You in weeks. It hurts my heart a little. Not because I miss you, but because I'm angry with myself for only seeing your good side. Like I always do. Sure, you were fantastic at horizontal recreational activities, but you were so flaky I could have lined the bottom of my bedroom with you. And as for your hobbies, you made my joint-a-day habit look like a stumble in the park. Yes, you were an excellent cook. You could also stir up a mean batch of the come-downs. I basically based my level of presence on whatever version of nose-candy you had indulged in the night before. You dropped the dreaded L-bomb early enough to distill any meaning from it, then sprinkled the word around whenever we got dry. I don't even know the depth our relationship dug to, because between completely ignoring me and wanting me to meet your family, I got lost in mixed signals. You had good books, yes, but I have the same ones. And your curly hair drove me crazy but, geez, I seem to remember another mop-head stealing my heart only to later trip over it. Trip is a good choice of word. Why do I like jerks so much? It forces me to remember that I need to focus less on the hurt and more on the realization that summer flings shouldn't hold so much weight. Still, it's too heavy to carry. The whole summer hangs over my shoulders like a shadow, black and full of ghosts, and as hard as I try to touch it, it keeps slipping out of reach. That island is a drug.