"My Cousin Believes Tupac Is Alive And Has A Gluten Intolerance": And Other Reasons I Hate The Holidays
As the week progresses into its tacit excuse for Jameson sponsored mating rituals and cocaine tinted memories, otherwise known as the weekend, I take a moment to acknowledge the growing dread clawing its way from the pit of my stomach. The foreboding pangs of panic that echoes through my mind and rattles what little sense I have. Dominating my cognitive function like some invading my body like some foreign legion of store-brand fuckery I'd hoped never to see again. I think these things because Christmas Day is almost here and with it comes my annual foray into an elite fraternity of masochism only shared by myself, self-identified fans of Soulja Boy in the year of our Lord 2016, and glossy niggas that still insist on wearing wool-knit turtlenecks at the club. I feel this way about the holidays because I know that my cousin believes that Tupac Shakur is alive and hiding in Twin Falls, Idaho, and I do not want to expend the energy resisting the urge to slap him with a clunky, 90's era remote control for the entire weekend.
My sister organizes a group text of all of our immediate family members to coordinate travel plans in much the same way a mother would chart which children would sit next to the other during a long car ride to avoid arguments and the inevitable run of liquid shits that follows childish hissy fits. We all acquiesce to her demands due to a combination of our own spectacular laziness, and her uncanny ability to make you feel more shame than the one father at the PTA meeting everyone knows is behind on his child support payments. I suspect my family agrees to these terms quickly because they know that only I will be singled out to hear a theory conceived in an intellect thoroughly ravaged by habitual neglect and an underfunded public school system. I say these things because my cousin believes that Tupac Shakur participates in semi-annual fun runs for osteoporosis in Twin Falls, Idaho, and I will rage punch a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch if I have to listen to it for one more fucking second.
I book my flight with all the enthusiasm one would have in securing an appointment to walk blindly through a room whose floor is covered with baby oil and strewn legos. I briefly entertain the idea of sending a doppelganger to attend the family function in my place, but I quickly dismiss the thought because it's not inconceivable that my family would prefer an uninformed stranger over my own actual, physical presence. With the ensuing resignation that such a thought brings, I pack my bags while internally repeating a mantra I had either learned during intense research of meditation techniques or overheard as I feel asleep while watching an episode of Bones. "Pain is inevitable. Suffering is a choice." This is what I tell myself as I walk outside of my door fantasize about what it would be like if a 2004 Hyundai Sonata were to perform a gang style drive by on me and me alone outside of my West Midtown apartment. Nothing fatal, of course. Just enough to ensure a lengthy stay at the hospital and enough sympathy sex to where my dick would need to hire its own chiropractor. I reflect on these things because my cousin believes that Tupac Shakur attends neighborhood watch meetings and regularly orders avocado toast at his favorite brunch spot in Twin Falls, Idaho, and I am forever in a state of being only four words away from tying an empty QuikTrip taquito bag over his head and watching him asphyxiate with an immeasurable, nay, borderline orgasmic level of glee.
