I have become very anti-Christmas over the years. I can explain why now but that will take too long. I will save that for another time. But I wish to share with you a short, short story about Christmas. A story that isn’t about the happiness and the joy of the holidays. This is a story about the dark side of it. Or really, just a story I wanted to write a twist on the holiday people love dearly.
Each child strives for love from their mother and father. We want them to love us endlessly and without ever saying it, we want them to love us the most. We want to be the favorite child among all the other window trolls. I am now certain that I am not my mother’s favorite child. I didn’t have to ask her and didn’t need a direct answer. It was because of the “funny story” she told me about my childhood. My sister talked about her birth. I’ll talk about mine. This is my story of my birth. This is me sharing with the internet how my mother has already explained wholeheartedly that I am not least favorite child.
I don’t have kids. I am already dead set that I will never populate the Earth with any offspring. The discussion of why I won’t get married or have a litter of little Kirk’s running around isn’t important. I am sure I have talked at great lengths about why I won’t. I brought up the topic of kids because it serves a point to the topic I am about to discuss. Even if you don’t have kids, you can still make your point. You don’t even have to resort to using children in your plan to make a point, even if the point is unimportant and a pathetic attempt and trying to come off as superior than others. If you want to make a point about something, I suggest you don’t do anything stupid.
I had a rough day at work. I needed to relax and while a good nights rest is the safest and cheapest idea, I figured drowning my worries and anger in a glass of beer is a better idea. I am not condoning drinking as a problem solver. I am not telling you to drink to fix the problems work drops on you. Sure work can bring you sob stories of decaying teeth, people with the precognition of being sick three days in advance, or the inability to chug water faster than a paralyzed penguin with a feet shuffling problem. I cannot control those things. I cannot stop people from doing the things they do that send me in to fits of rage. I cannot blame them for the foul words and vulgarness that spews from my lips and the degrading words that dangle and roll of my tongue. I drink not because you do things like call in sick or complain about your horrible life, I drink because I know you. Your presence alone will point me and literally drive me to the bar to drink and fix problems with barley, hops, and wheat.
I haven’t posted any of my writing lately. This story I am about to share is titled, “broken”. It is a story about a mother, her husband, and her daughter. Lauren fears her husband is cheating on her. Our story begins with the mother in the basement. She is busy humming along to showtunes while her daughter is woken up by the noises and the odd sounds filling the room.