I’m dreaming of a whi— Lauren Kantrovich
I hate Christmas songs. Jesus and Santa worship. And a concerning level of interest in forgetting the former and fucking the latter. Not that I care about either cheap god. I’m there for presents and a bottle of Roscato that my sister and mother can’t touch without the warmth of it setting their cheeks on fire. My dad’s digital, replacement turntable rambles on the same Nat King Cole I’ve listened to since I was five, littered with a few shoddy a cappella arrangements of “Jingle Bells.” I can still recite clearly: Adeste fideles le ti triumphante venite venite in Bethlehem Yada yada Moose. Oh! And getting to say “ass” in “What Child is This.” Yeah, those are the only things about the old Catholic Christmas I still like. But I don’t have to suffer through the twenty “Carol of the Bells’” sober— definitely not sober. Fuck if I know how to get drunk— I only ever want to a few times a year at these goddamned religious holidays: Christmas, Easter, Fourth of July. But as I sink down onto the green carpet sprinkled with pine needles and pull out the big and little boxes with my name or “gremlin” or “child #3” on them I’m consoled by the instrumental jazz with no words. It’s only this I can listen to anymore. (Well, this and Christmas EveL—Kpop doesn’t really seem to fit here) No words, no god or date-rape drugs. Just familiar notes and new harmonies.
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