Spoiled FruitCake

Merry Christmas.

This will be quick since I have to go and take on my first violin lessons in fourteen years and the prompter on my screen says “five more minutes”.

I guess it’s just me or maybe our generation has allowed teh fates to take over our childhood dreams of meeting Santa, or of getting what we truly want. Or maybe not. I guess it’s just me, thinking that christmas has just passed away like our Christmas dinner which is now flushing freely down the toilet. I’ve spent days and days of thinking what my monito or monita would strangely consider as “something inspirational”. Try “something idiotic” than “something big, dark, and juicy”.

I cannot believe it that by taking a psycopathic advise from my workmate has made me the cynic that I am now about the true value of Christmas. Ugh. How did I let that happen?

Looking at fake snowflakes makes me sad. Living in a country that only has two seasons (well, looking back at the news makes me think back and re-phrase that. I think we now only have one season, the humid rainfalls can explain that. And the two big thunderstorms, Ondoy and Pepeng can explain that clearly.) fantasizing on westernized cultures devouring on white christmases makes me terribly sick. Yet here we are, wasting every piece of paper that we have to make cut-outs of these twisted, swirly thingies stuck on every window pane I see.

The point is, why can’t I feel that merry feeling? That cold chill of frozen goodies? That warm baked feeling of chicken or pork or beef? Of that frozen fruit cake with it’s drunken brandy-flavoured love?

Love. Why can’t I feel that?


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