Too bad the only Christmas album you need this year doesn’t exist.
For whatever reason, the holiday season is when my mortality anxiety hit’s her peak.
I have no idea why, but I spend a lot of time this time of year baking cookies, googling WebMD and hoping my last meal isn’t fast food.
This year, my mortality anxiety has advanced to guru status. My mortality anxiety could give a TED talk on how to inflict the most pain. Also, the apocalypse helps.
In my defense, I have had a few oddish symptoms. Nothing horrible, but you know, it’s Christmas.
I googled my symptoms, and two of them brought up ovarian cancer in the number three spot. Ovarian Cancer is one of my biggest fears. Way before sharks and flying in a plane and I’m super scared of both those things. Ovarian cancer is my ghost of Christmas Future. If Charles Dickens had also been an OB/GYN.
This is like a Christmas miracle. For my anxiety.
I don’t hate my ovaries. I don’t. It’s no small thanks to my ovaries that two amazing humans exist on this earth. I am, however, terrified of my ovaries. Every year when I go to for my yearly exam, I have this little fantasy in the waiting room where I go in for my exam and my doctor says she’s going to schedule surgery and remove my ovaries. And then I bake her a cake.
I’ve been struggling to do much more than work and watch TV. I force myself to do housework. I force myself to write. I haven’t even baked anything yet. Lately, I’ve been forcing myself to eat and that is just not like me. Because fretting endlessly about mortality is just exhausting.
Also, I got a great big sty this week. My eye hurts. I look like a freak and it’s giving me a headache. Plus my eye won’t stop tearing up, which makes my nose run, which makes my ears hurt. Then, I can’t stop smelling things because I think I probably have COVID.
So, I’ve been doing my best to distract myself from my own brain, which isn’t fucking easy. I bought conditioner with hair color in it. I chose platinum thinking the conditioner would turn my gray white. I’ll either look striking or look like the crypt keeper. We all need hobbies, right? Anyway, that arrived today and I decided to give it a try and take a long, hot bath with my overpriced CBD infused bath salts. Maybe, just maybe, I could calm down a bit and stop worrying about the epic battle my ovaries are waging against me.
And for a little bit, it worked.
After soaking in the tub, I decided 2020 needs it’s own Christmas album.
I mean, I’m not writing lyrics or music or anything. I’m just coming up with titles. Someone else will have to do that other stuff. We have 48 hours. Surely someone could step up.
So, here we go, all the songs on the only Christmas album you need this year called Christmas 2020: For all that is holy, will this year ever end?
- I Shaved My Legs For Christmas
- Kris Kringle Blues: All My Friends Are On The Naughty List
- Silent Christmas (Mom Is Hungover Again)
- My Cats Ate The Christmas Tree
- Grandma Got Run Over By A Maskhole
- The Neighbors Judge My Yard (Heartfelt Ballad)
- Don’t Bring Me COVID, Santa
- Wear A Mask Or Else You’ll Get Coal In Your Stockings
- WebMD Is The Devil
- All I want For Christmas Is A Good Vaccine
- Do You Have A Dead Person’s Ashes On Your Tree?
- Chinese Food Is Festive
- Do You Smell What I Smell?
- The Bathroom Is Never Dirty At Christmas
- Rudolph The Slimy Lawyer
- The 12 Days Of Christmas Feel Like A Year
- Where Is The Goddamn Tape?
So, how about it? Someone write those lyrics and music and produce it, market it and sell it. That would be great. I’ll send you my PayPal information. Halfsies sounds about right?
I’m not serious about the ovarian cancer thing. Mostly. I don’t mean to be flip. Or insensitive. I’m not making light of a terrible disease that has affected so many women and their families. I mean, for all I know, it could be pancreatic cancer.