What's the point of life anyway? Why am I here, sitting with my tenth cup of eggnog, watching another flick where the big city gal falls inexplicably for the guy with the plaid shirt and the Golden Retriever from Hometownsville? God, even thinking about death is more uplifting than this.
Welcome to the Hallmarkian purgatory where every Christmas is the same and so are the faces. Ah, those faces—some kind of science experiment gone right, crafting actors whose features remind you of someone you might have known, or maybe not. It’s all a blur. I mean, should I be impressed or depressed?
Hallmark isn’t alone. Netflix has thrown itself into the Christmas Cinematic Churn-o-Matic, pumping out gems like "A Cookie Cutter Christmas" where cookies literally cut out the joy from my soul. The titles though—seriously intriguing. "Time for Me to Come Home for Christmas", for sure, because Earth is clearly running out of ideas.
These movies, they encapsulate an existential dread, sugar-coated in twinkling lights and predictable endings. You can see it right? Or maybe it's just the eggnog speaking or my ongoing flirtation with nihilism.
In conclusion, as I sit here, pondering over the futility of these festive repeats and my own solitary demise, let me leave you with a thought—if a holiday movie plays in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Or better yet, do any of us really matter in the grand scheme of these cookie-cutter catastrophes? Guess we'll find out, alone, under the mistletoe.
Based on the original article "How I Aged Into the Bad Christmas Movie".
