Taking down the Christmas tree is like a violent bout of food poisoning: it’s painful, it leaves you feeling empty and it reminds you of the great suffering that is the human condition.

That analogy may seem a tad depressing and melodramatic, but the longer I sit in my empty duplex facing a glorious arrangement of shimmering, flammable materials which will take considerable time and effort to neatly pack away, the more I am reminded of the gloominess of my existence.

I didn’t always feel this way about my Christmas tree; only two weeks ago I gazed at its twinkling lights with the same longing and hopefulness a C grade celebrity who once was a beloved sitcom cast member but now could only get work on hotdog commercials would look at a contract with Dancing with the Stars. It represented the possibility of lifting myself out of the meaningless ooze I lived in, with Christmas presenting an opportunity to bask in the attention and glory once showered upon me in my younger days. It meant presents and Michael Buble’s smooth, smooth voice and gravy and food in ball form and being around people who were conditioned to love me.

It’s amazing how something in any other context would be considered too tacky to be worth risking the fire hazard can make you feel like a person again. Colourful orbs probably created by the hands of malnourished children in sweaty, dank conditions somehow fill us all with the feeling of goodwill to all mankind. Around Christmas time we stop thinking of our elderly relatives as racist divas demanding we endure their presence because their loins bared the fruit that created out existence, and see them through a warm, glittery filter as eccentrically charming treasures to be cherished. We go out of our way to make shop assistants, bar tenders and waiters smile. We hand out plates of baked good to people who seem lonely (or, in my case, force taxi drivers to eat the leftovers of a double batch of gingerbread bickies after drinking more than my share of champagne). Once the wreaths are out and mass-produced cards are hung on strings over our walls, we turn into sentimental balls of love-radiating sunshine, taking time to marvel at the great joys of life.

So when we amputate the limbs of our plastic Christmas trees and pack the imitation greenery away in boxes, it’s more than a little disheartening. After putting the last box/bag/sack or cheap decorations away we return to our living rooms and are immediately filled with emptiness (yes, that was an oxymoron but that’s what made it poetic – I’m actually very deep you see). We’re faced with the vacant plasterboards of our meaningless, repetitive lives. As you vacuum up the last of the stray tinsel threads, the overwhelming joy you felt just days before is being sucked into a dark and dusty hole. Now your life goes back to the spirit crushing conveyor belt of normalcy –there’s no shimmering plastic reminding you that love is actually all around or dodgily-wired lighting illuminating your heart. There are just blank walls and your eternal solitude.

The silver lining in all this is that, after New Year’s Eve ticks over to New Year’s Day, you’re supposed to be all motived to get your life back on track. Unfortunately for me, my life is based in a comically cold climate and so I’m not so much “on track” as I am “in track(pants)”. And nothing derails the Little Train of Hashtag New Year New Me quite like wearing trackpants. I mean, I’ve already eaten two hot chip sandwiches today.

So where does that leave me? Facing off with two meters of green plastic and wiring, that’s where. It leaves me getting all existential about glitter. And no one should ever question glitter, or what it stands for. As I look around the cold-tiled floors and whitewashed walls of my inconsequential life I tell myself I should comply with the norms of society and take the damn tree down. But, before I am able to shackle the chains of reality around my ankles, I glance at my coffee table and see a mousepad I had received the night before after coming home to unopened mail. It may have been just a mousepad to the manufacturers, but to me it is the photo gift of the century. As I fixated on the most practical and tasteful way to commemorate a graduation, I was inflated by the sight of the glowing face of My Fantastic Friend From College triumphantly printed above three simple, life-affirming words: Stay Fabulous Dannielle!

Fuck it. The tree stays up for another night.