I phoned mother, as a good son does, on Thanksgiving. And per usual I got the same, boo-fuckin’-hoo litany, that –if I had more creative talent, I could turn into a one-man stage show titled “All My Friends Are Dead.” Mother loves to play martyr most of the year but she really amps her game come holiday season.

“Everyone I knew is dead.” Which is somewhat true. But she’s 83 and I’m, well…over the big five zero and can somewhat say the same. I have many acquaintances but in the trusted friend category I am lacking of late. My bad. Still it did sort of sting when mother asked what I was doing for Thanksgiving and I said ‘no plans; just doing laundry’ which was met with “well, you and me are in the same boat…alone on a holiday.” Wow. Way harsh Cher. (I’m quoting the film CLUELESS with that line, btw) She also told me to skip sending her the annual Christmas poinsettia because “I can go buy one for $5.99 up at the WAL•MART…” She says that every year and I’ve always ignored it and sent the big, glittery bowed plant from my hometown florist. But this year she’s getting her wish. Fuck it. Let’s both sit and be miserable on Christmas day.

smokin_jesusThanksgiving was indeed sad. And when I sit down to examine the ‘why’ it really circles back to my inability to make it not sad. It’s the depression thing. Nothing stopped me from reaching out to a couple orphan coworkers to share a turkey dinner but I spiraled into that ‘why bother/been there/done that’ mindset that rules my days out of the office. I’m fine Monday thru Friday because I have a routine and a pattern; it’s like a stage show and I know my cues and entrances. It’s the weekends where my wheels fall off and I careen out of control and sometimes out of my mind with stupid suicide thoughts and lost time spent rehashing shit from all the shoulda/woulda/coulda years of my life.

BW_PARTAYMy 30-something neighbor (not the Greek God one) whose living room shares my bedroom wall had a Christmas party last night. He plays keyboard; from time to time I can hear him practicing. I don’t mind because he’s pretty good and, too, he’s got some sort of Hispanic/Asian ethnicity vibe going on that makes me want to see him naked on all fours erotically grinding for my man pole of jizz joy.

Where was I? Oh. So he had a party last night and I could hear them all singing “White Christmas” and “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” It sounded so uninhibited joyful, so holiday fun; I imagined Tupperware bowls of chip & dip, iced imported beer in tubs, and endless smiling selfies. Then I thought ‘fuck this’ and moved to the living room sofa and quiet solitude as Mr. Grinch tip-toed into my apartment on soft green feet.