Push the Lady Over

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Huh.  Solitude is as big a Kong as King Kong.

I have this sort of relationship with solitude.  I think, at times, I’ve tamed it and I take comfort in its particular company. It feels like I can crave its singular experience at every moment during a long work week and sink into its grip like I’m being saved from a fire. Now and then, I realize how impossibly isolating it is as it seeks me out and demands I dance the special dance that pleases it.  There are times when you see that this is no friendship, really, and it feels as frightful as being held above the Empire State Building in a massive palm.   Eventually, it will drop you.   I sat there as this epically long movie finished up, rather non-plussed, alerted to how Jacksonian it felt – how much of LOTR you could see in how it was put together as a film, but soured overall.

But, damnable Christmas, this year we talk back to you.  We talk back to the strange voices that occur when you sit in a big, frigid house surrounded by cookies while everyone else is asleep at 7:30p.m. and snow falls lightly out upon the cul-de-sac that never was precisely home.  Here has been, since it was built, my parents’ house and I come here for holidays and relaxation and minor psychotic breaks.

This year, though, we say, what the fuck, Christmas, do you have to do with anything?

Everyone packed up and rolled out in a hurry.   It wasn’t a hurry, of course.  We spent all day watching TV (Miss Fisher on the parents new, larger TV looked smart plus Elf and Santa Clause and snippets of a half-dozen other holiday films and random House Hunter episodes) and eating leftover appetizers while my mother made a ham I was too full to eat.  My sister’s boyfriend and his brother joined us and they both are good guys and we played a creepy board game as he, her boyfriend, loves board games.  I felt properly relaxed about it and good and then, whoosh, everyone decided it was time to return to their real homes.  Meanwhile, I didn’t quite want to break the magic, so I thought I’d stay here one more night.  But then the eerie and the tired and my feel feel weird and I just feel odd and detached and the brain starts to bubble up with its own weird holiday internal monologue I am supposed to just absorb and spend a week suffering under.

No, we gotta talk back, because it ain’t the day.  It’s me just being lonely and that is SO natural and SO acceptable and SO pointing me towards wanting to feel the complete 180 of this.  This is my sign, rocket scientists, to keep on rolling myself.  To keep on towards my house and my future and not linger here in what was.  To connect with the friends online who are already making me laugh and remember everything that exists outside of this little depressive blip.

It’s just a day, darling.  Don’t matter how sad they make King Kong’s eyes, still somebody’s gotta shoot him off that tower.  Now give me a kiss.

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