Has anyone ever really thought about how Santa’s fat ass fits down the chimney?
He slaps on some spanx, squeezes his ass down there. The miracle of Christmas.
It doesn’t feel like Christmas. It feels like rush hour on Monday morning when you’re already late.
Stop. Go. In and out of traffic.
Did you just honk at me?! Motherfucker.
I slam the gas until I’m not sure it’ll unstick and ride up beside the only asshole my 20 mph over the speed limit wasn’t fast enough for.
It’s Christmas and I intend to bestow the gift of a great big F you.
I swerve in between the lanes. I can see the sweat running down this jerks neck and the veins in his eyes as they go wide.
Merry Christmas fucker.
My fingers are tingling, a sensation that dances up my arms.
I pay enough attention to know this is a bad sign. I have to dial in my frustrations.
Calm. Calm. Relax.
I take deep breaths, my therapist would be proud. My doctor probably would be too. The air moves in and out of my lungs, sponges absorbing this cursed city air.
That’s ok. Just breathe.
The tingling recedes only slightly as I focus on the point between breaths, just like the therapist taught me.
In … Out