If you’re looking for yuletide cynicism here,
you’re shopping in the wrong place.

This is New York City’s time of year.
It’s stood the test of time and it fairly sparkles,
proving that the ordinary can be extraordinary.
With the right lighting.

Lisa’s (parent’s) apartment glitters like our promised heaven on high.
When we left at Thanksgiving, Michael (Lisa’s dad) had the concierge
service stressed, toting boxes of decorations up from their storage area.
When I waved my goodbyes, he appeared to be wrestling an octopus of
cool-white fairy lights into submission. Now everything glitters pyrite bright.

Our holiday time is limited—and this is our chance to unwind—so we’re
selective about what we decide to embrace. For instance, there was a sale
at Michael Kors where, no big deal, I got a pair of brogue, black
leather wingtips that’ll be straight fire with a little black dress.
The bargains were so good that I decided the store must be a drug front.
Not that I’m complaining. Do I ever complain? Nope, I’m stoic.

Like Eric Adams, the mayor of New York, Lisa and I’ve
been “testing the product” of Manhattan's club scene.
We’re searching diligently for the new and unfamiliar.

When it comes to picking which clubs we want to visit,
Charles, our driver and escort (a retired NYPD cop),
has gone as far as to suggest, we’re “out of our depth,”
and refused to let us even try one or two DJ’d, pop-up clubs
in Queens that were getting a lot of heat and likes.
“Roosevelt Avenue is the new 42nd Street,” he’d said.
What does that even mean??
Indignant silence

Anyway,
I hope Christmas finds you all merry and bright and that your holidays—whichever you celebrate— are carnivals of food, music, friendship and love—for those are the luxuries that count the most.
Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Merry Kwanzaa, Happy Festivus!
.
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Songs for this:
Absolutely Everybody by Vanessa Amorosi
Rock With You by Traincha
.
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A Christmas Playlist—because there's 4 days til Christmas
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_28.mp3

Someone told me,
To water my own grass,
But what they neglected to mention,
Is that my grass is crass.

This is due to my unfortunate past,
Every minute spent kissing ***,
To be walked on and trampled by,
Boots and heels of brass.

So no, I will most certainly not,
Water my own grass,
The thoughts and evaluations,
Of the judgment I pass,
Is necessary and voluntary,
In a sea of largemouth bass.

I think it’s really 𝒇𝒖𝒏𝒏𝒚 when we ask, “how are you?”
The answer’s 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 the same.
“I’m good, how are you?”, “I’m fine, how are you?”, “I’m 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒆, I’m 𝒐𝒌𝒂𝒚!”
I think it’s funny, because sometimes it’s a 𝒍𝒊𝒆.
We have made it 𝒄𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒎 to 𝒍𝒊𝒆, to give an 𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓 that doesn’t 𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓 anything.
We have made it 𝒄𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒎 to 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈, because we 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 what they’ll say.

We 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 what they’ll say.
We 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 what 𝒘𝒆’𝒍𝒍 say.

You know what we’ll say?
We won’t say 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈.
We’ll say 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 because words are not 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 when they’re 𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒚.

We’ll repeat it, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵-

Can’t you see how 𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 this is?

"Hindsight,
is 20/20."
As the tag-a-longs
And dingbats like to recite.
Well that's dumb- 20/20 is average!!
This is outrageous -even our idioms our idiotic-
So I propose a new saying,
And yes, who is the 17 year old white boy
To say anything about anything.
But hear me out,
How about instead, we say,
"Hindsight, the unluckiest symptom of consciousness,
and a hell in its own right"
Okay yeah, well, maybe it IS a bit wordy,
And yeah, okay, maybe it IS a TAD too cynical.
But since when has a teenager been anything BUT
A self-proclaimed cynic.

With stars too far to telephone,
And when telegraphs aren't a thing anymore.
We gotta make our own futures,
But when we're riding along through our
Generation of hate,
Or lovely liberalism.
Try not to check the rearview mirror

if i point a gun at the sky
will I have a shooting star?
because I can no longer believe in a lie,
spoken by imaginary gods from afar.
so I am going to create my own wish
with weapons made by human hands.
at least I can count on them,
for they will never diminish my devious plans.

© fey (12/12/20)

I have resigned myself to this;
time stretching onwards a pale weak grey like that of a dove, promising peace
-- sod your peace, after all, heaven is a place where nothing ever happens --
-- heaven is Las Vegas -- everything and nothing all at once,
and around the corner of my hesitation
comes a voice as lifeless and mutilated as the rest of me:
"shut up and live."

I have walked unshoon through dust-choked wastelands
where they strung belief and imagination up
from the flagpoles, by their throats
and burned all our dreams to light up
a night grittier than a mouthful of gravel in a desert.
tracing my tracks and trails by the bloodprints
left by bare soles lacerated by shattered dreams underfoot.
"just shut up and live."

I have dreams, curiosities, wondering too deeply
what the last moment on Earth would be like,
what it would take to breathe through the end
and run face-first into oblivion or whatever's beyond it.
I sicken, and weaken, and wake up gagging on my own sweat
and the echoes of a voice made harsh by dysagapi:
"shut up and live".

It is the habit of the cynical
to believe themselves too smart to be optimistic;

This allows them the privilege of being unhappy,
even when they are right.