This Year, I'm Asking Santa For A Loyal Boyfriend....
Just kidding, I know there is no such thing as a loyal boyfriend. (I'm asking Santa for stilettos, as usual.)
It’s nearly time for my favorite fat bastard to come and hock his wares. I was going to bake some cookies for the occasion, but I thought better of it.
I imagine his wife isn’t thrilled by the thought of a bunch of MILF’s waving snickerdoodles in her husband’s face all night, usually clad in some tiny scrap of terry cloth that passes for pajamas.
I would probably feel a little more festive if it wasn’t 684 degrees at the house, but I cry like a little bitch in the cold, so there’s that.
I think I’m just going to do what I did in 2009, 2010-2015, and most of 2018, and decline to participate in adulting. It worked really well for me. There was zero stress involved, and after the first six or eight months, people stopped expecting me to act right. Then, every time I was where I was supposed to be, I damned near got a standing ovation from the people I was visiting.
Regression. That’s what I’m giving myself for Christmas, apparently. No need to fret, because I already know what size I need, and if it’s the nonsense I was subscribing to in 2015…well, I’m fairly certain it’s hanging behind some slacks in the back of my closet.
Because, in all honesty, I’ve been waiting for the perfect occasion to put on some 2015 April. She was a fucking force. She would kick the ass of 2021 April.
Probably twice.
There you have it. I’m going to pout and fuck off through the holiday season. Probably be cantankerous and snide. Maybe act like a Bitchface.
Now that I think about it, this should be the general description of me everyday. The only difference is the twinkle lights in my bedroom don’t look whimsical, they look like I’m festive.
I hope y’all are brimming with holiday cheer. I hope the fat man brings you awesome shit. I hope one of you sends me some of those fucking snickerdoodles. Those things are delicious.