My first Christmas alone was when I was 13 years old. I had run away a few months prior (Note: refer to a post I made in an Autolite topic last month regarding my childhood in NYC)
I could have stayed with any one of my buddies that had first generation Irish immigrant parents that let me crash at their house occasionally. But I was not going to do it on Christmas. No way. Everything I owned was in my backpack. Including my action figures (GI Joe) and my favorite comic books. And I wasn’t going to watch people open presents and be happy.
More importantly: I sensed on some level that I needed to begin preparing myself for what might become a less than normal life. Which required that I condition myself to extract from any normal, routine or holiday scheduled type emotions. I needed to become harder, more resilient and my spirit impenetrable by the charade and facade around me.
Ironic in a sense that the self imposed journey began on Christmas Day. I was Catholic. Baptised ten days after I was born at St. Mathias Church in Brooklyn and should have been celebrating that day. Although not the exact day that Christ was born: it is the day it is recognized.
Anyway. I made sure that I found a Long Island Express train that ran from the 53rd block in Queens into Long Island and close to Suffolk County, continually. And I stayed on it the entire way that night and rode it back, then continued the trip again in order to get some sleep and stay warm.
When I woke up on the morning of the 26th to an MTA worker yelling at me to get off the train at it’s last stop, it became the moment of my rebirth. When I decided to let any link to the world go. All of it’s superficial nonsense and acknowledgement of certain days and customs, etc – I got off the train, walked behind a building and took a leak. Then pushed forward to a bakery near Roosevelt Avenue to get a large cookie that had half vanilla icing on one side and chocolate on the other and a carton of milk.
From that point forward, ‘holidays’ have no effect on me. None of them. As the years went by, I intentionally go off the grid on holidays and do the exact opposite of what normal people do. From jumping out of planes on Thanksgiving day in the middle of the desert, surviving off of Sapporo and Zone Bars while everyone eats turkey, etc to my favorite Christmas Eve during my blue pill era, in a hotel room at the Mirage in Las Vegas, with a bag of cocaine and a stripper that was also a skydiver that I had jumped with that week. No Christmas, tree, no presents, no family, no nonsense.
But it was Christmas Eve. And I had remembered part in part of the New Testament there was a story about how Jesus washed a prostitute’s feet.
Not one to up the ante or try to outdo my savior, I still felt like I needed to take things to another level. After all, my fck-fest with her was free but she had banged older, wealthy guys for money before that she met at the club she worked at.
I wasn’t going to wash her feet though.
Winded up in bed with her on day 3 of the binge fck-fest and I painted her toenails.
I still remember the nail polish she had.
Lancombe’s Passion Pink, Satin finish.
That is all for now. The Sky-0 will return later tonight with more tales from a long time ago, in a blue pill galaxy, far, far away.
PuniShredder 4 months, 1 week ago.
