St. Patrick’s Day is a day I hate for so many reasons — obnoxious people using the day as an excuse to get shit-faced (as if those certian people need another one of those days), it’s agonizing to deal with the crowds and the green beer and the faux-Irish citizens littering streets… and most of all, the bad memories outweigh the good ones.
Kids have so much fun with fake holidays — they get to pretend stupid things like leprechauns are real, or parade costumes through their school, they get to exchange valentines and eat pretty cookies, they get to make crafts for their mothers and fathers and they think it’s the most amazing thing ever (I can forgive the latter… that cute stuff is gold) but when you’re an adult, a bad experience with any of the alluded-to holidays will shatter any of the good that still exists on that day. For me, that day is St. Patrick’s Day.
Maybe because I’m Scottish and Japanese, but… the Irish “luck” thing is not so lucky for me. Every year feels cursed, every year feels wrong, every year gives me another reason not to parade around wearing green and a “kiss me, I’m Irish” button. I want to say to those people, “I’m not Irish — and you’re not either!” And if they are Irish… power to them. Because if I were Irish, I’d be ashamed that people were bastardizing my heritage by dyeing beer green.
Yesterday, a friend pinched me for my black, white and blue outfit. And she asked, “did that hurt?” and I replied, “not as much as getting my heart broken.”