Merry Christmas is just my treatise on why you should just kill yourself

*** Merry Fucking Christmas. ***

Write this half drunk.  Bottles of liquor scatter as you pace around the living room.  Empty beer cans get stacked on the dining room table.  You wipe the spilled scotch away from your brother's pink laptop  before it starts an electric fire.

Christmas Eve was spent at a lonely man's bar talking to the dead heads and the losers that drink on holidays instead of spending time with their family.  Even there no one speaks to you but the old bartender that still brings up your first meeting whenever she sees you. How you told her you were into killing and stalking bartenders and that, "should be wary of you."

But she was never scared.  Mostly because she could kick your ass.  Not that you are interested in fair fights.  You don't get into fair fights, only fights that you start when you know the outcome already.  Fights after you have poisoned her drink.  Fights where only you have a knife, slice her belly open, and wear a mask of her face at her at next year's Christmas Eve scaring the bejesus out of her kids when you scream, "Momy's back!!!"

"You take shit too far!"  Her boyfriend will scream at you and kick you out of the bar.  On the taxi drive home you lament your condition.  Home alone on St. Nick day.  Then stuck at home alone on Jesus' birthday.

Your family has abandoned you because of your lack of fidelity, and you don't have any friends.  So you drink some more.  You get fist fucked.  You cry yourself asleep because anxiety likes to masks itself as mania sometimes.

Christmas ain't fun like it used to be.  When all you needed was G. I. Joe and a blanket and your imagination.  Now your imagination just takes you deeper and darker.  It provides no way out though.  It just zaps you twenty years in the future.  You will be older, uglier, poorer, in less health.

You have to hand it to inertia and the human will to live.  You can't see why we don't just off ourselves.  Why not take some of the assholes down with us?  Attack the fat cats.  Attack the beautiful.  Get back your sanity.  Sew some fucking justice in the world.

But the world just mocks you with atrocities.

What you need is 1905 pages of justification.    Without god we are nothing.  Burning out our nihilism, we can ask only, "but why, sir?  must we continue?"

The negative answer is the only one you see.  Else we sputter in shame.  Caught up in our self indulgences.