Happy Fucking Holidays

A lot of people might be inclined to think that I am Anti-Christmas, and they aren't exactly wrong. There are few things I find pleasant about the holiday, and it is layered underneath heaps and heaps of peppermint scented bullshit. Sorry, reindeer shit, if we are keeping it festive. Let's dive in to some of that fecal matter and see what ridiculous red and green colored nonsense we can unearth.

I'm not a big fan of lying to children, mostly because children suck. They deserve to know about the shitty truths that artfully compose the clumsy human existence. You get like, 13 years of being carefree, then the rest of your life you are stuck paying bills for the things that serve you only a little. You will resent everything that has ever meant anything to you. This all happens around the quarter life crisis, and boy, it does not get better from there. Holidays have this weird, almost requisite feature, of lying to children. Most of them involve creepy adults or anthropomorphic creatures giving them gifts and candy. This is particularly fascinating when you consider that we beat it in to children's heads not to talk to, take anything from, or even acknowledge strangers. But, apparently, unless it is a designated day of the year then that shit is totally legit. In fact, leave out some food and invite some fat fuck in to your house via chimney. People. This is how repressed memories start. To be fair it isn't just Santa I'm looking at, it's also the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and Christopher Columbus (homeboy had a penchant for breaking in to places that didn't belong to him). Pretty soon we are all going to be telling the little Timmy's and Tonya's that the guy walking around with a big ass branch and smelling of gin is Arbor Day Man and that if you sit on his lap he has to go speak to his probation officer.
On a more serious note, I recently heard this great classist perspective about the concept of Santa. Think about when you were in grade school. The week following Christmas indicated, beyond any doubt, who was naughty and who was nice. By perpetuating this idea that this mythical, but very real for children, being delivers gifts one night a year to good little boys and girls. It shows the have-not's that maybe they weren't good enough and when they got a sweater and some socks instead of a new bike. It isn't about whose parent's have money and whose don't on December 25th. It's about this jolly, geriatric man who wants to give you things, and if you receive less, you are valued less. And that, my friends, will fuck kids up for life.

Moving on, did you know the Salvation Army is SUPER DUPER against gays? The Salvation Army is practically in bed with Santa and his side chick. The cadence of cheap bells is a Christmas carol all it own. It even comes with its own holly jolly hate speech. A few years ago a high ranking representative from the organization suggested that members of the LGBT community should be put to death. This year a leaked internal documented suggested that "unmarried" (i.e. those big scary gays) bell ringers and other volunteers and/or employees should remain celibate. Maybe this year, instead of dropping some pocket change and lint in to those red kettles you can walk right past them and give your money to a shop keeper in exchange for goods. It's the Christmas spirit! No longer do you have to feel guilty for pretending to talk on your phone as you walk past those bell ringers.

Source:
Celibacy and Death

Running fresh off that last paragraph, let's talk about that obligation to give. No,  I'm not suggesting that consumerism is one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. I'm talking about that urge we feel to give people we don't care two shits about some sort of token of our feigned appreciation at this time of year. We feel obligated to carry out such acts in detriment to our own bank accounts. Don't do that. I give gifts because I want to give gifts. Furthermore, I give gifts whenever the mood strikes, not just because some "virgin" pooped out a baby, allegedly, a while back and as a result I need to give everyone within a 2 mile radius a Starbuck's gift card. By this point, my blog should have clearly indicated that I fucking hate feeling obligated to do anything. I believe in free will and the ability to make my own god damn decisions. And if I think you are a platter of turds then I will certainly not feel required to give you a box of cookies to reward your mere fucking existence in the month of December.

I can tell you almost the exact moment my loathing for the key components of Christmas began: when I started working at Target. I worked exactly one Black Friday at Target and one Black Friday at Gap. That was more than enough for me to solidify my plans for total desecration of the human population once I become World Empress. Unless you have worn a company assigned name tag on Black Friday, then you have no idea how fucking insane middle-aged white women are at 6 a.m. No longer are they riding high off those 4 (5 when you weren't looking) glasses of pinot, and they are still pretty pissed off that no one laughed at their vaguely racist joke during dinner. Pair those two explosives with an inexplicable sense of entitlement and self-worth, and you have enough Coach bag fueled fire power to destroy every hapless sales clerk they encounter. The people who wait outside of stores on Black Friday are the precise reason this holiday was probably Hitler's favorite. Nothing says I don't care about anyone but myself and the aftermath of my broken condoms quite like asking everyone in retail to give up their holiday to serve your superiority complex. What makes these people even more charming is when they have the gall to say, "I can't believe they have you guys here this early!" Holy shit, go consume an entire gallon of dicks, please. And while you have your mouth full, let me inform you that the gifts you buy your little shit-bird children will only stave off their resentment for you for a maximum of two weeks.

In all actuality, I'm not trying to ruin Christmas for anyone. I am just brushing aside the tinsel to make it clear that Christmas sits on a throne of downtrodden and broken souls. Not mine though, I don't have a soul. So continue to celebrate with your loved ones, shove a candy cane up your ass if that's your sort of party, but don't you dare act like Christmas isn't a big, tedious, load.

Short Hair Manifesto

Up until I was in forth grade, my hair was down to my butt. It was stick straight, light copper, and it garnered me a lot of attention. Once a woman came running up to my mother and myself in a parking lot (because that’s safe) to tell me that I had the prettiest hair she had ever seen (bitch, I know). It was when I was about 11 years old that I wanted to try something new. I cut it all off in to a very short bob and donated my hair to Locks of Love (that was before I knew about their sleezy practices). I then slowly progressed in to shorter and shorter looks, until eventually I was maintaining a pixie cut. On a few occasions I decided to grow my hair out because I wanted to feel more feminine (don't ask). Usually I didn't get further than a few inches (roughly two to three months of growth) before I thought better of my decision and went short again. At no point has my hair ever reached past my shoulders since that fateful day in fourth grade. 

I have no idea why I decided that I wanted short hair. Honestly, I think it was a chance for me to stand out and look different. Which is weird because no one wants to stand out in fourth grade. My favorite haircut, up until this point, is my mohawk. About 3 years ago I had run out of ideas and needed something fresh, but I knew that when you only have five inches of hair to work with, you don't have a ton of options. I threw caution to the wind (you know, the notion that ladies should have long locks otherwise their vagina ceases operation) and went for it. I put my hair in the very talented hands of my Aveda stylist and she created a monster rockstar. She brought out the clippers, slipped on a guard, and buzzed my sides down to a few centimeters. She spiked and tousled the 'hawk and that was it. I absolutely adore knowing that when I walk in to a room, people remember me. I never get confused for anyone and I love it. I practically subsist on compliments alone. The only bad thing about the compliments is that they are often followed by "I could never pull that off." I have no idea how to respond to that self-deprecating nonsense. 

If I could, I would force every woman to have short hair at some point in her life. It is the most empowering decision you can make. Whenever I hear the words, “My significant other doesn’t like me with short hair.” I want to give a backhand to everyone within a ten-foot radius. Fuck what your significant other thinks about the motherfucking hair on your motherfucking head. Seriously, blow me. Blow me so god damn hard if that is something you honestly believe. First and foremost, it’s your god damn hair on your god damn head on your god damn body. You can do whatever the fuck you want with it. The only person, other than yourself, whose opinion on your hair matters is the person cutting it, because maybe you have a funky shaped head. Second, there is no second. Fuck right off with that, “he/she doesn’t like it.” You are in control of what happens to your scalp. You are not a dog at the groomer.  You are not at the will of some other human being’s opinion of the fucking hair on your head. Of all of the insignificant bullshit someone could be so unnecessarily concerned with, this one happens to be the most impressively enraging. If the person whose genitals you put in your mouth on a regular basis has ever told you anything than “I love your new haircut,” you break right the fuck up with them. Don’t trust anyone who is that offended your boss ass hair. You don't need that shit in your life.

There is no hiding behind a pixie cut. You have to own everything about your appearance on both your good days and your bad days. And contrary to popular belief, short hair is time consuming and high maintenance. Sure, my haircuts take 10 minutes but I have to get them every two weeks and I have enough hair product to serve every Broadway production for the next 40 years. And if you aren't familiar with good hair products and good hair cuts, well, that shit is e-x-p-e-n-s-i-v-e. Furthermore, there is no "throwing it in a pony tail and running out the door." Every single day I have to do my hair. And every single day I have to do my makeup, otherwise I look absurd. It's a commitment. 

The important thing to remember is that hair grows back. If that isn't enough, there are really cute hats and scarves at your disposal. I mean, maybe you do have a funky shaped head.