it’s the most wonderful time of the year. capitalist vultures pounce on the opportunity to get you to blow your money on shit no one needs. the roads are decked out in sparkly lights, instagrammable moments complete with a scoop of haagen dazs and kids yelling at parents for that $400 lego set. “to give is to receive,” a watch ad reads, as you walk by an old man playing the harmonica. families reunite. tears are shed. some go to church. carols are sung, more in the spirit of nostalgia than of devotion. some people insist on saying “happy holidays” instead, and perhaps rightly so. historians say Jesus wasn’t born in December. the Romans just stole some pagan holiday. apparently Jesus was born somewhere between late summer to early fall, June to September, some hot day in a small dusty village.
somewhere in June you are rushing to complete the stack on your desk. get home late. get into an argument with your parents. they wish you’d come home earlier. you shut the door. waste an hour or two on instagram. God is far from your mind. in a dimly-lit bedroom across the street, someone is slitting her wrists. another is gaping at pictures of anorexic girls on tumblr. a bunch of schoolboys hang out at the void deck, debating whose pussy they’d like to eat. two thousand years ago on a hot dusty night, a baby boy was born in a manger.