Ugh, I fucking hate Christmas. I wish I could take a vacation on another planet during this season. It all starts with that pumpkin spice bullshit. The music, the decorations, the same old rampant consumerism that despite a shitty economy, people will still throw their credit under the bus just to make sure everyone has a Chinese-manufactured gift they don’t want or didn’t ask for… exhale
I’m imagining a red and white van pulling up next to you. Masked people in elf costumes overlayed with tactical gear grab you, put you in the van, and sedate you. You wake up, tied to a red and white velvet chair and surrounded by a warehouse decked out in the most ostentatious Christmas decorations you’ve ever seen. It’s like a CIA black site that looks like a Christmas village. You look down. They’ve changed your clothes while you were out: skinny jeans tucked into Ugg boots, a scooped neck sweater, and an infinity scarf. You can’t see them, but you feel certain, based on the sensations around your ears, that you’re wearing white furry earmuffs. One of the elves approaches. “Time to fill you with some Christmas cheer,” she says menacingly as a cruel smile begins to spread across her face. Another elf takes you into a headlock from behind, while two others hold you down in the chair despite your struggling. The first elf is holding some kind of tube. She forces it up your nose. You feel it scraping the soft lining of various tissues as it forces it’s way down into your stomach while tears run down your cheeks. You feel a click near your nose, and the elves release you from their grasps, leaving you to the chair and it’s restraints. You see the tube before you, now connected to a large syringe with some kind of brownish-orange slurry within, in the hands of the elf who spoke earlier. She depresses the plunger. You feel your stomach slowly expand with the warm contents from the tube. You burp. What’s that smell? Pumpkin spice latte? Turkey? Cranberry? Stuffing. It seems you’ve been infused with a holiday meal. A figure emerges from the glare of the Christmas village before you. You hear the forceful, measured clicks of boot heels striking the faux cobblestone floor. The boots emerge from the glare, then legs, the the bottom of a dress with white fringes. When their face comes into view, you realize it’s Mariah Carey herself. You wait for to speak but she just maintains unblinking eye contact with you, a professional, superficial smile plastered on her face. Slowly she raises a microphone to her mouth: “Ahhhhhhaiiiiiii, don’t want much for Christmas-”
You shudder awake, and throw off your headphones. You must have fallen asleep listening to music when the algorithm started to drift away from your preferences. It was just a dream. Your stomach rumbles and you stifle a burp. Wait, no. Was that- could it be…pumpkin spice? You reach for your phone, but in moving, hear an unfamiliar jingle. Looking for the source you realize it corresponds to a bulge in your pocket. You reach in and fish out a small metal object that jingles with motion. It’s a sleighbell. A disturbance in the shimmering patterns of light reflecting off it catches your attention. It’s an inscription:
Ugh, I fucking hate Christmas. I wish I could take a vacation on another planet during this season. It all starts with that pumpkin spice bullshit. The music, the decorations, the same old rampant consumerism that despite a shitty economy, people will still throw their credit under the bus just to make sure everyone has a Chinese-manufactured gift they don’t want or didn’t ask for… exhale
Fuck Christmas.
I’m imagining a red and white van pulling up next to you. Masked people in elf costumes overlayed with tactical gear grab you, put you in the van, and sedate you. You wake up, tied to a red and white velvet chair and surrounded by a warehouse decked out in the most ostentatious Christmas decorations you’ve ever seen. It’s like a CIA black site that looks like a Christmas village. You look down. They’ve changed your clothes while you were out: skinny jeans tucked into Ugg boots, a scooped neck sweater, and an infinity scarf. You can’t see them, but you feel certain, based on the sensations around your ears, that you’re wearing white furry earmuffs. One of the elves approaches. “Time to fill you with some Christmas cheer,” she says menacingly as a cruel smile begins to spread across her face. Another elf takes you into a headlock from behind, while two others hold you down in the chair despite your struggling. The first elf is holding some kind of tube. She forces it up your nose. You feel it scraping the soft lining of various tissues as it forces it’s way down into your stomach while tears run down your cheeks. You feel a click near your nose, and the elves release you from their grasps, leaving you to the chair and it’s restraints. You see the tube before you, now connected to a large syringe with some kind of brownish-orange slurry within, in the hands of the elf who spoke earlier. She depresses the plunger. You feel your stomach slowly expand with the warm contents from the tube. You burp. What’s that smell? Pumpkin spice latte? Turkey? Cranberry? Stuffing. It seems you’ve been infused with a holiday meal. A figure emerges from the glare of the Christmas village before you. You hear the forceful, measured clicks of boot heels striking the faux cobblestone floor. The boots emerge from the glare, then legs, the the bottom of a dress with white fringes. When their face comes into view, you realize it’s Mariah Carey herself. You wait for to speak but she just maintains unblinking eye contact with you, a professional, superficial smile plastered on her face. Slowly she raises a microphone to her mouth: “Ahhhhhhaiiiiiii, don’t want much for Christmas-”
You shudder awake, and throw off your headphones. You must have fallen asleep listening to music when the algorithm started to drift away from your preferences. It was just a dream. Your stomach rumbles and you stifle a burp. Wait, no. Was that- could it be…pumpkin spice? You reach for your phone, but in moving, hear an unfamiliar jingle. Looking for the source you realize it corresponds to a bulge in your pocket. You reach in and fish out a small metal object that jingles with motion. It’s a sleighbell. A disturbance in the shimmering patterns of light reflecting off it catches your attention. It’s an inscription:
“He sees you when you’re sleeping.”