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Every year around this time something happens. Whether it is an internal switch that gets flicked on by the forefingers of my soul or just a drop in temperature that does it remains unknown. What I do know is that every year I start to hate people.

Without regard for their feelings or their background I unleash my thick, unwarranted, Grinchy and gratuitous yuck upon them. For instance, one of my favorite Christmas memories was the night I went to see The Life Aquatic with my best friend. We sat on a curb at The Grove in Los Angeles and made fun of people as they walked by.


“Look at this emo-bullshit. Cut your hair you dumbass and maybe do a better job of hiding those wrist scars next time you leave the house.”

The lights twinkling from the palm trees above, the cool night air, a warm coffee and two people having a great time together. This is what it’s all about I thought to myself. This is the Christmas spirit. Me smiling and enjoying another’s company, being thankful for being me and not that stupid bitch wearing a mini jean skirt and Ugg boots to keep warm. Yup, this is it.


Ah, ‘tis the season for this brutal inner me to reveal itself once again. I wish I could say that I can control it, hold myself back from making offensive remarks about cancer despite my friends’ history with the deadly bastard, or my own. I wish I could think of what I’m saying before I say it—not this month. I’m sorry, in advance, unless I have already done my dirty work to you. Then I guess I’m just sorry.


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