Call me Grumpy, but the holidays really chap my ass. 

My disdain becomes more pronounced with each passing holiday season, and I find myself wishing it just didn’t happen. For anyone. Anywhere. Ever. To hell with little Cindy-Lu Who and her adorable pink onesie. I’ve begun to think we ought to just cancel the holidays altogether. What’s that you say? My heart is two sizes too small? Are you harvesting my organs to pay for Christmas this year? Right, then let’s not worry about the size of my heart. 

When I was a kid, I loved the holidays. Most kids do. The magic of the bright lights, the insular sense of familial well-being, the extended time off from school…what’s not to like? And let’s not forget the gifts. By the time I was in college, my Christmas list was a word-processed booklet, broken down into categories with specific directions and suggestions for where to find the more evasive items. Both my gluttonous list and I were bona-fide pieces of work.

All of that’s changed. Holiday giving and receiving is meager on Planet Grump. My industry slows way down between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, which means I’m usually pretty broke by the time the jolly fat man lubes himself with margarine for the trip down my chimney. 

As I write this from inside a corporate coffee shop, I’m shocked and appalled to discover that Earth, Wind, and Fire’s “September” has been digitally altered to become “December.” Seriously? Nothing is sacred. Much in the same way that the food industry (we’ll call it Big Sugar) has taken pumpkin spice varietals well beyond the pale, we seem determined to make everything in our world have a holiday twist from mid-November through the end of the year. “Forced” doesn’t even scratch the surface. 

You can’t buy groceries without having the holidays rammed down your throat. I’m subjected to the legend of Rudolph while I hunt for a brick of cheddar, sung, thankfully, by a mid-century crooner. (Auto-tuned Christmas carols are just the lowest of the low.) In a different coffee shop, Miss Piggy repeatedly squeals “five gold rings” over the din of conversation. It was genuinely funny once or twice, but by the 10th time, I’m harboring a fantasy about stabbing her chubby felt neck with a fistful of coffee stirrers. 

Who thought any of this was a good idea? It’s as if nothing else were happening in the world (and yet so much is). There’s no escape. We’re all being penetrated by a gigantic corporate Christmas tree whether we like it or not: “Sorry, folks, we realize the needles are a tad sharp, but there’s a complimentary fresh tube of peppermint-stick-scented ointment in your mailbox at home.”

For some people, the holidays are really difficult on a basic emotional level. For LGBTQ folks in particular, it can be a reminder of old rejections and hurts from unsupportive family. Maybe you feel obligated to reunite with people who don’t respect you, which leads to all kinds of negative thinking. 

But folks in our community feeling forlorn around the holidays need to know: They’re not missing out on anything. The truth is that the holiday season has become a cesspool of greedy behavior and unchecked alcoholism. Fret not, it’s nothing you’d want to deal with anyway. But the problem is that we can’t escape it no matter where we go, so an illusion is established that makes people feel like they’re missing out on something great. It’s cruel.

The true spirit of Christmas is a celebration of life. It’s a celebration available to anyone who wants it, for anyone who isn’t bothered by its Judeo-Christian connotations. And, as I’d interpret it, it’s a celebration that’s meant to transcend things like gender and sexual preference. But not everyone wants it. And those folks shouldn’t have to stay indoors without any media exposure in order to avoid it. Unfortunately, that seems like the only way.

The implication, driven home by beloved stories like How the Grinch Stole Christmas and It’s a Wonderful Life, is that you’re a cold-hearted curmudgeon if you’re not on-board with all the holiday shenanigans and need to be shown the light. We’ve been socialized to believe that there’s something inherently wrong with us if we can’t muster a festive tone this time of year. And for anyone that has trouble doing so, our friends and associates have been raised to believe it’s their responsibility to bring us ‘round. Barf. 

Christmas has been hijacked. It’s been bastardized and perverted. It’s no longer recognizable as its former self. It’s a back-alley plastic surgery disaster. I was choking on my food at dinner the other night, listening to an acquaintance yarning on about the various goodies he snagged during Target’s Black Friday blowout (all for himself and his partner to enjoy, no giving involved). To try and explain what bothered me about it would’ve potentially meant throwing him under the bus, so I just sat and nodded. It’s not fair to hold one person accountable for the wrongs of an entire culture, however tempting.

But those circulating clips of rabid individuals trampling one another and grabbing items out of each other’s arms early on Black Friday? Those should be used to identify the culprits, who should then be rounded up and sent to a work camp, indefinitely. Perhaps Jane Goodall can be called upon to deal with them until they demonstrate their worthiness to rejoin the rest of us. These people are the dregs of humanity, and don’t bother trying to play the race card with me here, because the behavior is perpetrated by all colors, all creeds. 

Sale prices have reduced us to animalism, wherein we creep up on others and rip the fresh kill right out of their mouths. We laugh because we’re at a loss for how else to deal with the ugliness. It’s funny because it’s absurd; it doesn’t seem real. But much of it is. You call that Christmas spirit? A savior was born (or, if you don’t believe in saviors, let’s just call him a historically cool dude) and this has become an excuse for some of the most appalling public behavior in the supposedly civilized world. I fail to follow the logic. 

For years, I’ve tried to nail down what’s missing from my experience of the holidays that used to dependably fill me with warmth. Black Friday obviously isn’t it, but there’s no denying that the big splash of gifts received caused a massive dopamine party in my brain. Over time, however, I became convinced there was more to it than that. I didn’t want to believe that the only thing that made me tick around the holidays was the promise of goodies. 

Turns out, thankfully, that what’s missing isn’t something that can be purchased: It’s a sense of reassurance and familiarity. For me, the holidays were about finding comfort in the knowledge that, regardless of what else is going on, my family would come together for a brief period every year and attempt to enjoy each other’s company. Some years were better than others, but there was a ritual in place. 

Which isn’t to say that there’s no joy to be had in gathering with friends and exchanging some gifts or enjoying a nice meal. But it’s not the same sensation and lacks the reassurance that all is right with the world—because it isn’t, and a new flat-screen television won’t change that. What remains of the holiday season offers so little in terms of genuine fellowship, it’s a shame that anyone should feel like they’re missing out. What they’re missing died a slow, painful death starting in the middle of the last century and finally petered out completely 15 or 20 years ago. All that remains is brash, cheap, and unspeakably phony, but it will never completely go away. Believing it will implies that we’re capable of learning something from our mistakes, and the track record isn’t very good.

There’s nothing wrong with not loving the holidays, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. There’s no shame in disapproving of what’s happened to Christmas now that large corporations have so grossly distorted and destroyed it. In fact, if more of us were honest with ourselves, we might realize that the holiday season makes us feel put upon, obligated, strained, and unhappy, none of the which are in the true spirit of giving or celebrating the birth of someone great. 

I’m not a religious person, but maybe this year I’ll go to midnight mass and see if I can find some holiday spirit there. After all, isn’t that where this annual shindig really got started? Maybe that’s where it should’ve stayed.