Early December, 2008. I had, arguably, never been more depressed. It's something to wake up in the morning and not know or remember who you are. I was tired, fatigued. My thinking was muddled. My emotions were flat. The pain was sharp. I was drinking heavily. Cans of beer and bottles of cheap jug wine littered the house.
I looked out my window. Someone had installed a large, blow-up Santa balloon on their front lawn. My heart swelled with hatred. People put up such ugliness on their lawns. Why does the working-class try to imitate the bourgeois? Well, the bourgeois are generally superior - a Marxist I am NOT! Or, well, they are all pieces of shit. But really, how could anyone put such ugliness on a front lawn?
The next night I looked out and the Santa was deflated. Defeated. I felt terrible. Guilty. Even mildly heartsick. I started weeping. I felt so bad. My Dad had one of those ugly balloons on his lawn - a New York Giants balloon. Yes, these people were alien extraterrestrials to me. Or, rather, I was an alien extraterrestrial to them. But, really, were they so bad? Were they so bad? Or was I bad?
I saw the man who had installed the Santa. He was just trying to be happy. He was just trying to be happy. He was just trying to be happy. I kept saying this to myself as I wept into a pillow so hard I almost vomited. He was just trying to be happy. Life's too short to be sad. And then I started weeping again. How much of my life had been wasted in unhappiness? I wept for him, for them, for myself, for those I've loved, and for the human race in general. I wept because we all have to die.
The night after that the Santa was inflated again, like a testament to the human spirit. I was so glad I started weeping again.
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