Last Christmas, I realized how selfish I am.
Every year — every fucking year — during the holidays I wistfully think about my own “Ghosts of Christmas Past.”
The year they bought me the first PlayStation, the advent of that black and green colossus named Xbox. I even feel envy for my younger self, who was capable of going through that crappy Super Man 64. That little bastard. He was candidly in love with video games, no need for fancy superstructures or dandy gobbledygooks.
But what about the adults? Nobody thinks about them. For them it must be way more awful.
For them, Christmas lost its spirit when we grew up.
I think about my father, that one Christmas he gifted me Tomb Raider 2. Holiday afternoons spent with my mother, quickly finishing my homework so we could play some Mario Kart or Killer Instinct together.
I think about my uncle. He has nobody to buy ugly sweaters for anymore, nor the first book of a series about a wizard in London (who eventually grew up with me).
I think we are all assholes, at Christmas. We always whine about what we lost growing up, without considering what others lost with us.
And maybe this is why we desperately want to get a family ourselves — a way to regain the magic of Christmas, ’cause only children can evoke it…
