Thanksgiving? More like Shitgiving!

Yello, imaginary Awedience! Santa here.

Thanksgiving is over and you know what I’m thankful of? That it’s over!

Yes, you heard right. I hate Thanksgiving. We’ll, I do like tasty food, but I like tasty food all year long, so it doesn’t count.

Now it is time for a real holiday: CHRISTMAS!!!

Sure, Christmas isn’t yet around the corner, but some start decorating even before Thanksgiving, so don’t judge me. Besides, I’m Santa, which means that I’m allowed to celebrate it whenever I want!

Here at Killing Smokes, we like to celebrate Christmas differently (and by we I mean me, my elves, and other imaginary creatures and friends); what we do is send presents to me instead of the other way around (yes, you guessed right; I mail gifts to myself. It doesn’t get sadder than that, does it? At least I always get what I wished for! That’s something, innit?)

To all you who think that I’m not real, I’d like to tell you that I do, in fact, exist. Sure, I may not live in the North Pole, but my parents’ basement is as cold.

Also, to all little children sending me their wish lists: grow the fuck up! you’ve all been naughty, you get shit this year.

Okay, that was a tad harsh… Let me rephrase:

Instead of being the little egotistical buttholes that you are, think of the little children on Africa that May or may not get a bottle of water this year.

Also, your daddy pretends to be me. He bought you your present last year as well.

Note to self: sober up then blog.

That’s all for today, folks!

Santa out.

“Be Yourself” Bovine faeces…

I remember a time when all boys wanted to be policemen or astronauts. I remember when girls wanted to be actresses or pop stars or Barbie dolls. And I stood there watching them. No, not with the eye of a cynic (I hadn’t developed a dislike for the world just yet) but with the eye of wonder. I had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up.

Almost twenty years from then, I watch my friends having jobs and what not. Of course, none of them accomplished their childish dreams, but me: I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. Oh, wait, I grew up!

Some people, like myself, don’t really know what to do with their lives. Maybe we just want to major in laziness, or maybe we just don’t bother with anything any more (code for lazy).

Sure, I’m lazy, but is it my fault? I don’t think so. Let me just blame the system for a second here (because, heck! Why not?). It’s the system’s fault that gives us childish hopes and dreams. As children, we don’t really have a great individuality: we all want to be the same thing! But the system teaches us to accept that we’re different. It brings out the artist in us, the lawyer, the businessman, the architect. And then the same system crashes what it has created by offering us extremely expensive colleges and universities that we either can’t afford to attend or we’ll have to pay off with an interest as high as Everest. And let’s say we attend. Then it crashes us by offering charming jobs like call centre operator or fast food cook. I may be lack of a childish dream, but I never dreamt this nightmare. No wonder I’m lazy! I was a cynic all along, even as a child! I could already see there was no hope.

Many want to be actors or directors, yet most of them become burito makers. Many want to be lawyers, yet most of them will end up helping their father in their garage fixing cars.

Screw individuality! We live in a consumerist communism. Or something worse. The whole “be yourself” slogan is just an illusion.

But it’s okay. At least we have the option to be lazy.

Unless, of course, you have debts to pay and family to care for, so being lazy doesn’t count as a great idea.

Well, screw this! I’ma be a saint!…

…Santa out!

The most awesome second blog ever

So, I read at how-to’s that I must post at a regular basis, say: every Friday. But since my imaginary Awedience hungrily awaits for my posts at any given moment, I gave in and decided to fulfil their imaginary dreams. I’m a good master. Pat me now.

 

Let’s talk about neighbours. Do you like yours? I hate mine. Although I pretend to like them and smile whenever I see them. They have two kids. Do you like kids? Yes? Something’s wrong with you. Wait, I said kids, not babies. Still yes? Well, then, you should have my neighbours’; they yell and play when and where they’re not supposed to and they’re always loud and– wait, I sound like a grandpa. I generally have a slight distaste for children from I-can-talk-now to my-parents-don’t-get-me years old. I confess; I lied about the word “slight“. Babies? I don’t generally like them, but the ones that don’t generally cry are usually very, very cute. But what I hate the most about children is their parents. Especially my neighbours. Their mother screams more than them to stop them from screaming. Their father is apathetic to everything that happens around him. He probably pretends they don’t exist and lives a happy little life in his head.

 

While writing this blog, I realised my neighbours aren’t that interesting after all. But they have a special place in my heart, because thanks to them I have used several words of the vocabulary I didn’t know I was able to pronounce and very textually mean every single figurative expression.

 

And now they stop yelling and I have nothing else to blog about. Tragedy of my life.

I feel like I’m in a Sophocles’ play and this is my last monologue before I dramatically drop dead to the ground but, of course, I can’t yet before I curse whomever put me in this situation (neighbours) and then the joke will be on them when they live a long happy life but their grandchildren shall suffer for whatever unfortunate misfortune befell upon the accursor (I’m pretty sure I just made up a word here) and the descendants must be subject to my curse because of the malevolent deeds of their accursed ancestors.

 

I also promised to my fake Awedience that I shall speak about hashtags. Thoroughly. Well, I shall, but not yet. It’s too soon. Unless I die till then, #hashtag shall be my last blog ever.