Tinsle

The holiday season, huh? Halloween to the New Year–a glittery marathon of empty gestures and overdressed garbage. You cannot take two steps down the block without some damn reminder—plastic skeletons, turkeys, fake snow, all screaming in your face what time of year it is like you don’t already know. It’s a con–all of it, a season stuffed with want in a world choking on need. You see it everywhere.

That train set, running its little circle in the window of some rundown five-and-dime—a dolly programmed to cry and piss itself. We pretend it is cute, pretend it matters, but out there, people are begging for a scrap of bread, a clean shirt, and a safe place to sleep. And we got the nerve to drape the streets in lights, to belt out carols about goodwill and warmth, none of which ever finds its way to the guy freezing in the alley.

And at home, well, the missus—she is a living saint. She decorates for every goddamn thing–Valentine, the Fourth, Arbor Day, you name it. She lights candles and hangs wreaths, making it all look like the world is not burning outside. Bless her heart. She tries to give me what I want, but all I need is this drink in my hand. One more bottle to blur the edges of this so-called holiday cheer.

So yeah, here is to the season, all right. A toast to the bright lights, the empty promises, and the people we forget in the name of festivity and fakery.

Cheers.