Drinking feels obligatory in December. Sneaky hot ports after chilly dog walks. Boozy 3-hour-long lunches discussing art and projects, for which lunch was just an excuse. Baileys on ice at mandatory Christmas parties, headache coming on from too much extroverting. A glass of wine during the term’s last writing workshop, on Zoom because of icy road conditions; I wore a sequined jumper and cradled a hot water bottle, Sam snoring at my feet in front of the space heater. We won’t know ourselves come the new year.

//

Anyways, here’s a piece I wrote during the writing workshop, a 5-minute response to a prompt, all the titles or verses of Christmas songs my cohorts and I could remember. It’s super silly, but hey, ho ho ho!

“Baby, it’s cold outside,” said Frosty the Snowman, half-melting on the doorsep. Baby refused to play: “No way I’ll go out, not even for five gold rings.” Humming Jingle Bells in the slushy street, the snowman walked into a dirty bookstore on 9th Street, and while a woman told her lover she was pregnant on the floor above, Frosty thumbed a nudie magazine and dissolved into a heap of black coal buttons. Bleak midwinter indeed.

<<