Nothing makes us feel more like a hypocrite or an ungrateful citizen then morbid feelings during the Holiday season. Or maybe nothing makes me feel like a hypocrite more than feelings of ungratefulness during this week.

It is not that I am not thankful, I can count and list numerous things that I am grateful and thankful for. I know this-people in my life know I love them. America is still free even if it feels like nothing but doom and despair is on the horizon. I have a job, and thank God for that, even when I want to strangle and or punch half the people there. I love my siblings and my mother and have some of the best girlfriends any girl could ask for. So why the feeling of ungratefulness. The feeling and attitude that says I care so little about my minuscule existence in this society that I have not vacuumed my floor in about a month? The one that had to make itself wash clothes so they could say they actually did something. The one that has to refrain from cursing people out for their mundane conversations about the ethics pertaining to the ranking of college football.  The one who has many blogging ideas but says “screw it I have no readers anyway”. The one who decides to write a poem saying how she really feels but decides that is pointless too because her sibling blogger has probably already written a better version. The one who spends more time trying to figure out what is going on in a guys mind, then a conspiracy theorist does trying to figure out the 2012 election. The one who spends more when she  has less because the rush makes her feel liberated. The one who smokes a pack a week after every last cigarette.

Yeah I’m that person. The person I hate. The worst version of myself and I don’t know when it happened. Was it disappointment? A hope that got water thrown on it?  A complete letdown? A depressing moment that got expanded into a whole month? A subtle or veiled rejection? Yeah…I have become one of those girls that I despise then, one that places her moods or expectations on other people. I know better than that, but after years of  a calloused and independent existence I guess it was time.

            So minor insults add to injury. My father passes, and I grieve time I didn’t spend. I grieve words unsaid and I forget sometimes and think I should maybe call him. Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas balls for Birmingham’s finest are ensuing and there is no time to sort anything through emotionally or mentally. Money I spent when I numbly bought clothes and gas to make trips for family and to make myself forget that I hate my job and I hate Birmingham, insult my plans of being financially free because obviously I am no better then the rest of the overspent nation. The no smoking sign on my building and the new rule that smokers have to smoke by the dumpster in the corner of the back parking lot-you know so that the rest of the patrons of Highland Towers can eye us like we are Circus Animals, insult my dignity. The new Birmingham laws restricting smoking pretty much everywhere, insult me as the tax payer that pays possibly the most ridiculous fees anywhere. My vehicle tag is over 300.00, I pay a little over 600.00 for rent + parking and I cant smoke in my own building? …Then there is the fact that I am smoking at all; when I quit for the third time in my life it will take a year of yoga poses to clean out my lungs again. Every time I get online I look for messages or emails from people who obviously are not doing the same, this insults all my ideas of strong femininity, and being resourceful of my time.

      So I walk to down to Five Points, where I also cant smoke but it is somewhere different than my apartment on the twelfth floor where the sun is so much closer to that wall length window, and buy a cup of peppermint mocha that I shouldn’t be spending money on and pretend to read Atlas Shrugged but I keep thinking of that song by Joni Mitchell “The River”…for once in my life of listening to classic rock and folk music, I finally understand that song. “It don’t snow here, it stays pretty green, I’m gonna make a lot of money and quit this crazy scene”

If I were someone else I would tell myself that it was okay. An idea will come and everything will even out. Bills will get paid, they always do. Pains will lessen and lessons will be learned, and later someone will reap the benefits. If I were someone else I would think of myself as a whiner and complainer who needed to get over herself and move on with life because bad things happen and I would think how shallow she must be for putting all her shit out there for the world to see. But I wouldn’t think that of her right now, and I wouldn’t tell her that right now. I would let her run her course first. After all this is such rare form for her, and writing best describes her inner self. If you ever get a letter-or a tribute written to you, you should count yourself special-even if someone else could write it better.  In the words of Bruce Springsteen “jokes on me but I’m gonna be okay, if I can just get through this lonesome day”.

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