kalenderbilde til korte historier gjennom desember

The Holidays for me are…

Terrible Christmas sweaters, judgmental cats, predictable Christmas movies and a never-ending nightmare.


I love my girlfriend. No, seriously…I do.

What I do not love about my girlfriend is her obsession with the Holidays. Walking into her apartment is like a drawing from a child in kindergarten. It’s filled with a mishmash of horrendous colors, from white to reds and greens, shapes and sizes misplaced and mismatched to create not a Winter Wonderland, but a Holiday Horrorland. And the worst part, instead of telling the kid the tough truth that their drawing is shit, you just smile and lie:

“What a wonderful picture Jeremy, this will surely go on the fridge!”

And much like the drawing on the fridge that haunts the parents forever, I have to see this nightmare every single day. Not just from December and onwards, oh no, my girlfriend is the psychopath who starts the instant Halloween is over and it’s socially acceptable to fully embrace the Holiday spirit. And if I don’t partake in the grotesqueries, well, I won’t have a girlfriend anymore.

I feel like a drug addict walking the streets to her apartment, my eyes skittering around, afraid that people might know the unlawful stuff I keep in my bag. But it’s not narcotics, no, it’s even worse, and deals more psychological damage. A Christmas sweater, blemished by a million blinking lights, and a Rudolph smooshed in the middle of the heinous scene. I couldn’t wear this in public, not even beneath my jacket, people would know, the obnoxious lights would probably pierce through the fabric. So instead, I kept it in my bag, and changed just outside her apartment, making sure no one was in the vicinity, not to see my bare skin, but to see me for even a second in that monstrosity.

“Oh my gosh, it looks soooo cute on you! Sit, sit! I’ve just bought a new Santa figurine, and the cookies are soon done. Isn’t this going to be an enchanting evening?”

Either it was her gullible nature, or she didn’t want to confront the obvious problem, but she didn’t see through the lie when I just smiled politely and faked a smile. In the cat tower next to the sofa, Yasmine stared, clearly in the same pain I was. Because wrapped around her naked skin was an awful Christmas sweater as well. Meaning that now we shared two similarities, the first was the awful sweater, the second was the inevitable PTSD we would suffer every Christmas for the rest of our lives. But like all cats do, she still thought she was above me, well, she quite literally was, sitting atop the highest plateau.

Judgmental whore.

“Coooooozy up! We’re going to be watching one of my faves today ‘Love Actually’!”

“Great,” I smile as my lie escape through gritted teeth.

*Love Actually’ is probably a great movie, no, a decent one. But after 24 and half screenings, it really wasn’t anymore. My girlfriend could recite the entire film, I would not even attempt to regurgitate the abomination. But I sat there, humoring her every wince, giggle, and tear.

I could never see a Santa Claus in my entire life again. Because when the sexual activities were due for the evening, of course her room was decorated with Rudolphs , elves and Satan Clauses. And there was one specific Santa always right at me whenever intercourse was taking place. I’ve asked her if maybe what we were doing was a bit too naughty for Santa to see, but apparently it was an heirloom from her grandma, and she wanted it to stay in that specific spot. So as the accommodating boyfriend I am, I tried different positions, but even when its gaze didn’t directly face me, I could still feel those judgmental eyes burrow into my neck:

You’ve been a naughty boy.

You’ve been a naughty boy.

You’ve been a naughty boy.

And it was terrifying.


I never want anyone to ever doubt my complete and utter devotion to my girlfriend. I truly love her, otherwise, I wouldn’t suffer through this hell on earth every year just to make sure we stay together. She truly is one of a kind…in more ways than one.


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