atomicpoet on Nostr: Hallmark. I hate it. God, I hate that store. Every time there’s a birthday, ...
Hallmark. I hate it. God, I hate that store.
Every time there’s a birthday, Christmas, or really any kind of event, my mom insists I go to the local Hallmark and pick up a card. She values those cards so much—more, I think, than actual gifts.
I’ve tried to replace Hallmark cards with my own writing, thinking that something personal would mean more. I mean what I say when I write. But those cards? They’re assembly-line sentiments. They don’t mean anything. I don’t understand why my mom insists on them. Why do these cards matter more than a handwritten note? Why does a note mean less than a card? And why does the card mean more than the gift? I don’t get it.
These things—they’re cursed. They’ve followed me my whole life. And then, when I’m forced to go into these stores… God, what I really hate about Hallmark is that it’s the Thomas Kinkade of literature. Barely literature, but that’s what it is. Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me if they sold Thomas Kinkade art in those stores: the mugs, the posters, the balloons. It’s all dripping with sentimentality. And sentimentality’s fine, I guess—but could it at least be authentic?
I don’t know how these stores even exist. Well, clearly, somebody loves them enough to keep them afloat—and to create an entire channel. You know the Hallmark Channel, where the movies play? I’d call them rom-coms, but that implies there’s comedy. There’s no comedy in a Hallmark movie. The plots are horrifying when you think about them.
Take the Christmas ones, for example. There’s always a big-shot TV reporter, engaged to some executive. She visits a small town for the weekend, suddenly falls in love with a lumberjack, and dumps her fiancé to marry this guy. And, of course, the executive is presented as a total asshole. But really, what did he even do wrong? All he did was support her dreams—let her go to some random town to chase her career ambitions. That’s it! And for that, he’s punished. “Fuck you, man, for existing.” That’s what these movies scream. “Fuck you, man, for being responsible, getting a degree, and making something of yourself.”
That’s Hallmark: the bane of my existence.
You know, the funny thing is, this Christmas, my wife and I—well, we don’t usually open gifts on Christmas. We celebrate it as a cultural thing; she’s Buddhist, I’m Jewish. But this time, I thought, why not open gifts on Christmas Day? I figured it’d show we care a little more—make it feel meaningful.
And then my wife said to me, “You’re becoming like your mom. You’re turning into a sentimental fool.”
And at that moment, I thought, Goddamn, you’re right. I don’t want that. I don’t want to end up in my own Hallmark movie, doing this willingly.
I hope that’s not me. I hope that’s not me at 70.
Every time there’s a birthday, Christmas, or really any kind of event, my mom insists I go to the local Hallmark and pick up a card. She values those cards so much—more, I think, than actual gifts.
I’ve tried to replace Hallmark cards with my own writing, thinking that something personal would mean more. I mean what I say when I write. But those cards? They’re assembly-line sentiments. They don’t mean anything. I don’t understand why my mom insists on them. Why do these cards matter more than a handwritten note? Why does a note mean less than a card? And why does the card mean more than the gift? I don’t get it.
These things—they’re cursed. They’ve followed me my whole life. And then, when I’m forced to go into these stores… God, what I really hate about Hallmark is that it’s the Thomas Kinkade of literature. Barely literature, but that’s what it is. Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me if they sold Thomas Kinkade art in those stores: the mugs, the posters, the balloons. It’s all dripping with sentimentality. And sentimentality’s fine, I guess—but could it at least be authentic?
I don’t know how these stores even exist. Well, clearly, somebody loves them enough to keep them afloat—and to create an entire channel. You know the Hallmark Channel, where the movies play? I’d call them rom-coms, but that implies there’s comedy. There’s no comedy in a Hallmark movie. The plots are horrifying when you think about them.
Take the Christmas ones, for example. There’s always a big-shot TV reporter, engaged to some executive. She visits a small town for the weekend, suddenly falls in love with a lumberjack, and dumps her fiancé to marry this guy. And, of course, the executive is presented as a total asshole. But really, what did he even do wrong? All he did was support her dreams—let her go to some random town to chase her career ambitions. That’s it! And for that, he’s punished. “Fuck you, man, for existing.” That’s what these movies scream. “Fuck you, man, for being responsible, getting a degree, and making something of yourself.”
That’s Hallmark: the bane of my existence.
You know, the funny thing is, this Christmas, my wife and I—well, we don’t usually open gifts on Christmas. We celebrate it as a cultural thing; she’s Buddhist, I’m Jewish. But this time, I thought, why not open gifts on Christmas Day? I figured it’d show we care a little more—make it feel meaningful.
And then my wife said to me, “You’re becoming like your mom. You’re turning into a sentimental fool.”
And at that moment, I thought, Goddamn, you’re right. I don’t want that. I don’t want to end up in my own Hallmark movie, doing this willingly.
I hope that’s not me. I hope that’s not me at 70.