The Christmas Story

Prologue: Hello, this is my 2006 Christmas story.

Chapter One: Reflections

Christmas, however commercialized and bastardized, is the one event of the year, next to my birthday of course, that I look forward to. I do hate shopping for gifts during the Christmas rush, but I love wrapping them. I start singing Jingle Bell Rock as early as October. And I also secretly practise my thank-you speech because one can never really know if and when a dog or cat will jump out of a present box. I mean, I like to be prepared.

Chapter Two: The Helpful Hints

[My Christmas list, as in the past FOUR years, still stands: 1. a dog (preferrably Labrador or a Golden Retriever) and 2. a cat (preferrably with stripes)]

Chapter Three: The Cliffhanger

But alas (alas! hehehe), this year-end is turning out to be, well, shitty. Absolutely shitty. In fact, it is absolutely fucking over-the-hill shitty. And let me tell you why…

Chapter Four: The End of the Cliffhanger

When I had my xrays taken for my wisdom tooth extraction the doctor found other things, namely, cysts, that needed to be fixed. How and why I got them, I will ignore the question, because I have no clue either, although the only explanation I can come up with that makes sense is Bad Cosmic Karma (Gel, if you’re reading this, the karma train finally caught up with me). It was explained to me that the duration of the whole package, operation, recovery, pain and suffering included, would take about 5 days, just like the removal of my wisdom tooth. So I said, fine, let’s get it over and done with.

What I did not expect was to have the holidays taken away from me. After an excruciating hour and a half of tugging, bleeding, drilling, sawing, injecting, and stitching everything back together, I was told that recovery was far from over,and that I should not eat anything solid for the next 10 days.

“But… but it’s Christmas!” I protested as best as I could through my anaesthesized mouth.

The dentist’s assistant smiled at me and patted my cheek. “Yes, so you should eat only compotes and mashed potatoes, yes?”

“But… but… you don’t understand! I must eat a maximum of pork because I’m going to Qatar – there’s no pork there! I can’t smuggle saucisson through immigration!” — I tried to say this but my mouth failed to cooperate; instead blood dribbled down my chin and the assistant helped me to my feet.

“Now, you will be a bit swollen and it will hurt,” she told me. “So you can take the painkillers. And remember to take your antibiotics – this is very important. And you might still be bleeding afterwards, but that is normal. And you will feel the pain in all of your lower teeth – this too is normal. They will be very sensitive. You must not eat anything, because it will bring bigger risks, and you don’t want to do this again, yes?”

“But it’s not fair! I asked and you specifically said the level of pain would be just like having a wisdom tooth removed! And it’s not the same – believe me, it was me sitting on that chair! I know this is for my own good but you lied! And did I mention I should eat a maximum of pork before I leave?” — I tried to say all this but as usual my mouth wasn’t much help in the flexibility department; so blood dribbled down my chin again, and the assistant helped me into my coat.

Chapter Five: The Drama Paragraph (to the accompaniment of a weeping violin)

I walked out, shivering, into the envelopping gray of Paris. A taxi cab pulled up in front of me: I got in and, fighting back the numbness, I tried to communicate in sign language where I wanted to be dropped off. He shook his head and asked me to spell the street name, whose letters I clenched out, one by one, as best I could through the wad of tissues I held against my mouth.

And off we drove, my forehead pressed against the window, looking at the children walking next to their mothers, their eyes bright with Christmas spirit and their mouths functioning normally. I tried to lose myself in poignant memories: the smell of cookies from the kitchen, perfectly-formed rainbows, world peace, unicorns… A smile started to tug at the corners of my mouth, gratitude filling every cell of my being, and the colours of life started to return…

And then all of a sudden I realised that the anaesthesia was wearing off (the only reason why “a smile started to tug at the corners of my mouth”) and inside my head I screamed, “FUCK, THIS HURTS!!!!”

(fade out weeping violins, fade in Smashing Pumpkin’s Tales of a Scorched Earth)

Chapter Six: Friends

I like to think that I am a pretty friendly person. I pride myself in having good, real friends: friends that I’ve hung out with, friends I’ve gotten high or drunk with, friends who I can turn to if I want a laugh, friends with whom I’ve exchanged emails with, friends who are easy to talk to, friends I’ve bared my deepest secrets to.

But as of now, when it comes to my friends, you all don’t mean a thing to me. My best friend as of this moment is Paracetamol.

Chapter Seven: Coming Home

I clumsily started pulling out pots and pans and broke into my secret stash: Liquid Diet Packets. I ran my fingers over various boxes until I finally decided to go for Mashed Potatoes.

How easy it is to make mashed potatoes! I hummed contentedly (in my head) to myself. I wonder how people ever got by before instant mashed potatoes. These days all I have to do is add water and milk and pouf! I have mashed potatoes. Let’s see… water… and…

Inside my head I screamed, “FUCK, I’M OUT OF MILK!!!!”

Epilogue : Life, if you are me, really sucks.

THE END.