my feet are tired, but i feel wonderful. i am in my new apartment, and i am all alone. i’m sipping a big mug of coffee, listening to teenage fanclub on shuffle and ignoring the fortress of boxes that surrounds me. i am giddy — overjoyed by things like discovering my paper cutting board doubles as a mouse pad, hanging my coats in a closet specifically alotted for them and stacking my cornflower dishes beside my marigold bowls on the kitchen counter. it’s so good to be home.
now all i need is a christmas tree — or a decent substitute (although, really, what is as good as the smell of pine?).
all of a sudden i am in the mood for the holidays. now that i have all this space i want to fill the kitchen with the smell of gingerbread cookies and brighten the living room with twinkly lights. i want to blast christmas carols, while i sit on the floor with wrapping paper and ribbons strewn in a mess around me. i want to cut out paper snowflakes and tape them to my window.
some people, they get really cranky around this time, but i love christmas. i love giving gifts and sending cards and singing falalalalalalala. i get merry.
(oh, wow. i just got really sad for a moment, thinking of the christmas two years ago, when we were at my grandparents house in the philippines. we played mahjong and painted watercolor postcards; we couldn’t remember for the life of us what my true love gave to me; we let the poor children sing carols in our living room; we put a santa cap on grandpa and stood around him while he opened his gifts in the patio. i miss him. i miss everyone.)
they will try to ruin it. those who’ve had decorations up since the day after halloween, those who cut me off in the parking lot to steal my space, those who say that santa’s not really real. but they couldn’t bah humbug me even if they tried.