A Valentine's love note

 My Dearest

It’s two days after Valentine’s Day, and while everyone’s busy showing off their fancy dinners and heart-shaped chocolates, I’m sitting here thinking about us.

Two years ago, I had a Valentine's day recipe. Last year I wrote about 'Her'. This year, I am late. But I've got something to say.

About Us.

Yeah, us. The real love story. Not all that crap people talk about. You’ve been with me through thick and thin—well, mostly thin, because, let's face it, I’ve eaten my fair share of snacks in front of you. And yet my bones show. But still, you’ve always been there, quietly doing your thing. You’ve never asked for anything in return.

I don’t need roses or overpriced dinners to show my affection. I need you. You keep it cool when things get heated, you’re always there when I’m in need of a midnight snack, and your steady hum is the soundtrack of my life. I don’t need you to send me love notes or dress up for me. You don’t need to do anything extra - just be there. And that’s real love, right?

Just being there for someone? Time, is love.

You’ve never let me down. You don’t judge me for the three-day-old pizza I keep hanging out with, or the forgotten leftovers shoved at the back. You’re cool, and that's exactly what I need. No expectations. Just a quiet, comforting presence.

So, here’s to us. You’re the coolest thing I’ve ever had in my kitchen.

With undying love and gratitude, to my fridge..

Your devoted human

Hey Ho! Hey Ho!

 Well, well, well. It’s me, Santa Claus, your friendly neighborhood gift-giver, sleigh driver, and expert in navigating the complexities of holiday logistics.

But let’s cut to the chase, shall we? If I had a dollar for every time someone mentioned how "I’ve changed" or how "Christmas isn’t the same anymore," I’d be able to buy a whole lot more reindeer feed. But, alas, the world’s a bit... different than when I started this gig centuries ago. And it’s mostly because of ya'll!

Ho ho, wait, no, I can’t say that anymore. Apparently, “ho” means something else these days, and I’ve been labeled “weird.” What the actual merry hell? I’m Santa Claus, not a rapper!

Let’s talk reindeer food, shall we? Do you know how much organic, gluten-free reindeer chow costs? A small fortune! Dasher won’t eat anything without a kale garnish, and Rudolph’s all about the oat milk trend now. Meanwhile, I’m stuck footing the bill like some magical ATM with a beard. You think magic sleigh rides are free? Spoiler: They're NOT.

And where are all the goddamn chimneys? Did everyone decide modern heating is more important than holiday tradition? Now I’m squeezing through vents and doggy doors. Last week, I got stuck in a Ring camera’s spotlight for 20 minutes while my undies got wrapped around a nail. All this while some teenager live-streamed me like I’m just “some fat dude in a costume.” Do you have any idea what is the internet lingo for an old man hanging upside down in green underwear?

Oh, sure, Timmy, ruin the magic for all your followers!

Speaking of fat, can we talk about the body-shaming? Every Christmas card shows me as a jolly round guy, but every other comment I hear is, “maybe lay off the cookies, Santa. Oh, Santa’s getting a little round.” Yeah, and it’s none of your bloody business.

It's not like I’m lounging on a beach sipping eggnog. You try working one night a year and stress-eating 200 million snickerdoodles without gaining a few pounds. And dont get me started on what you leave for me to eat: Do I look like a rabbit to

you? I have one job, people. I deliver presents, not gluten-free, organic, non-GMO snacks for some influencer’s 15 second video.

And ladies? No one wants to sit on my lap anymore. “It’s creepy,” they say. Oh, I’m sorry, Karen! It’s tradition! And what poked your thigh was a star, not my *** . I couldn't get it up for all the foundation cream and fake lips.

P.S: You had no problem plopping your toddler there for Instagram likes last year. Yea, ya'll deserve that mall Santa. And I heard his lap does poke.

Social media influencers have obliterated my rep. Thanks to TikTok, I’m now the guy in those “sexy Santa” parodies. I’ve even had elves quitting to join startups - "Santa's workshop is too toxic," they say. No, Jingles, it’s you and your damn avocado-toast budget demands!

Oh, and why; why do I always walk in on drunk couples in their underwear? It’s Christmas Eve, not another Friday night! Nobody wants to see that. It’s as scarring as teens in baggies walking head first into traffic, stuck to their mobile phone.

I’m magic, kid. Respect the red suit!

So, yeah, Christmas isn’t all sleigh bells and gingerbread, folks. But I’ll be back every year, huffing reindeer farts and dodging emotional trauma, because someone has to.

With my beard, belly and ho ho hos. deal with it.

Yours truly: SC

Now, where’s my whiskey? Merry *** Christmas!

19 November 2024.

 19 November 2024.

Two parallel rail tracks stretched into the horizon, side by side but never touching. They had been laid down decades ago, at the same time, by the same hands. One track was slightly worn, its steel rails darkened by the years, while the other gleamed a little brighter, its surface still smooth from the recent passing of trains. They both watched the world go by: mountains, rivers, forests, and cities; always moving, always going forward. Like two forgotten thoughts.

Sometimes, a train would come and shake the earth beneath them, its headlights casting long shadows over the rails. For a moment, the world would seem to pause, as if everything was on the verge of something, anything, even a collision. But it passed, as it always did. The train, the night, the silence.

At night, when the trains were silent and the stars hung like soft lanterns above the earth, the two tracks would whisper to each other. They spoke of their journeys, of the places they had seen, and of the distant landscapes that stretched far beyond their reach. At night, when the moon was full and the world seemed to sleep, the tracks would lie there in the dark, aware of each other in a way that only things destined to never meet could understand. There was a kind of tenderness between them, a fragile, unspoken bond that only the wind and the dust could sense.

Sometimes, they wondered if they would ever meet. But deep down, they knew that they never would. It was not their fate. They were just there, together but not together, running in their own direction, heading toward futures that would never intersect. They had always known this.

In that stillness, they were enough. It was fine. It had always been fine.

And in the morning it happened. Some random guy pulled down his pants, squatted right in the middle of the tracks and took a dump.

19 Nov 2024. World Toilet Day.

Shit at home, asshole.

Untitled

 Beneath the relentless sun, the highway unwinds

Strangers, in the rearview

pass like echoes, with stories left behind

each mile a whisper of hope.

Love flickers in the dust, a flame held tight yet far

Threads like barbed wire

tangled, yet electric

While birds on a wire linger

tracing dreams like scars

and singing of connections

that cope, or falter

and the night starts to break..