Gifts are stupid. I’ve never been able to handle gifts worth money or gifts that aren’t immediately disposable; gifts that aren’t food. I like food. Gifts are meant to illustrate to someone that you care about their life, but unless you are buying a house or food for a person you aren’t providing any of the necessities to life. Instead you are providing them with one more thing that they aren’t allowed to throw out when they move – one more thing to throw in the back of a u-haul because of their obligatory sentimental attachment to hunks of wood or metal.
I am not just a lover of nostalgia, but a liver of nostalgia. I am the liver of nostalgia. That’s not to say I’m the best person at living nostalgically, but rather to say that I consider myself the vital organ that detoxifies nostalgia. Gifts are to nostalgia as chugging a handle of Jackie D is to your body.
To a true future-pastian, nostalgia is all one lives for, but nostalgia comes in the form of memories. Memories are what make you fond for a moment, and gifts are like forcing memories that need not exist. It’s like someone is hijacking your desire to remember certain events and saying “remember me more! I’m a needy fuck-ass and I want to prevalent in your life by buying you something.”
Buying you something.
I repeat that because I want to point out that every time you buy a gift you are slapping a poor woman in the face. Figuratively of course, though every time I get a gift I slap a homelesswomen in the face out of a desire to make the figurative literal. Gifts are purchased out of a desire to be remembered, but if you don’t have the money to purchase a gift (and don’t give me that shit about making gifts because materials that go into crafts cost money too you rich fuck) than do you not deserve to be remembered? I say you do, and therefore I will not keep your gift – instead opting to discard your attempt to simultaneously rape my memory and the less fortunate individuals of our society into the nearest receptacle.
Memories are sacred and are not to be tampered with or taken advantage of. When I turned 5 my parents threw me an enormous birthday party with homemade carnival games in our backyard, my entire kindergarten class, and a carrot cake that nobody liked because they were five. I’m sure I received a gift from every child at my party, but I only remember one. It was a little toy car. My mom took me aside before we opened presents and told me: “Dustin is going to give you something small, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad. It’s his favorite car and he gave it to you because his parents couldn’t afford to buy something else. Don’t be mad at him.” I wasn’t. I was very thankful. I don’t actually remember if his name was Dustin, but I still remember the car (the gift) and I played with it for the rest of the day. At the end of the day I gave it back to him because I didn’t feel right keeping it. Even back then I knew that the nostalgia he had associated with that object was more to him than to me. To me it was the act of giving that inspired memories.
That’s why gifts should always be food. Because we shouldn’t need the object around to remember the event of giving – that’s lazy. Instead we should savor the taste of creating that memory in the moment both literally and figuratively so that I don’t have to punch homeless women in the face anymore.