box of christmas

All of my ornaments are in a box I keep anatomy books on I have never looked through.  I give them too much care now.  I wrap those cheap Technicolor jobbies in soft cloth and have those rabbit ear things that go in the ends that look light the insides of light bulbs, those things, kept in another smaller box.  I saved some tinsel.  I hated Christmas as a child.  I had to pretend the toys a poor parent buys their kid are made of gold and joy and love.  I get the ugliest tree I can find and I don’t let anyone over when I do Christmas and I sit there and cry until I am cutting  on myself then I knock that shit off and put it all away again.  No shit.  When Anne gets involved I put my whole Christmas in one of those little boxes.  For three years I feel it waiting to have Christmas but I keep it in there instead.  Sometimes I say weird shit around Anne like I think I like Christmas.  I don’t get her anything the first two years and tell her its all about the experience.  I do shit for her and stuff like that.  Once I told her I wanted to bring the whole world back and give it to her but everything was pretty much fuckin stuck in place and so I brought her a foil wrapped piece of dime store chocolate that looked like the earth.  I get Games, a TV, Movies, Blow Job cards, Shirts, Watches, Pens, Gifts that don’t count because I needed them she says, gifts that count as birthday and Christmas but I get both anyway.  Our last Christmas, the fourth one, the one after we broke up I showed her my Christmas and we cried but I didn’t cut on my self that year, I made her leave though and boxed all that shit up again until next christmas.


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