Stupid Christmas

I hate it. And it started like, two weeks ago. Not the hate—the holiday horseshit.

I don’t have kids, so I get to hate Christmas. I hate the hoopla, the expectations and at the risk of shamelessly echoing Linus Van Palt, I hate the commercialism. And the music. It’s everywhere. The nonsense is endless. I’m watching Rocky right now, at 10:40 on a Saturday night. Next they’re showing Rocky 2. They just called it a “holiday marathon.” I can’t get away! It’s freakin’ November 28th. I don’t want to play your reindeer games.

What I don’t mind are the Christmas lights on the houses. My block looks very festive (already). And I do love the briskness in the air this time of year… yes, 78 degrees is brisk, and kind of chilly. If my husband reads this he’ll find out I might surprise him with a tree. A tree in a house with no room. Whatever, I’ll rearrange some stuff. And I’ll decorate tree with real candy and Porsche trinkets. Wife of the year.



Written by Anne Clendening
Anne Clendening was born and raised in L.A. She's a yoga teacher, a writer and occasionally slings cocktails in a Hollywood bar. She could eat chocolate cake for every meal of the day. She has a huge fear of heights and flying. And fire. She wishes she could speak French, play her guitar better and make cannoli. She's probably listening to The Dark Side Of The Moon right now, kickin’ it with her boxer dog and her hot Australian husband ★