I hate the holidays.

Sure, it’s great to be handed a bunch of stuff you might actually want (and I won’t turn my nose up at free socks), but all the stress and anger and over-reaching to try and make the holidays somehow ‘happen’? I hate that. Like the days on the calendar won’t even dawn if we don’t slog through the mayhem of a mall on Black Friday, or make the perfect turkey stuffing, or use the wrong shade of red ornaments on the tree. That fake tree that takes DAYS to put up, sparking screaming fights with Mom the whole time because she needs a seasonal punching bag, and ain’t no one happy if she ain’t happy.

I despise all the TV ads that tell me I should live in a land of snow and scarves, of cozy houses and smiling relatives bearing edible casseroles and hugs. How I’m somehow inferior for being too broke to give much of anything and a thousand miles from the nearest relation, in a bland desert climate that’s been urbanized to dingy asphalt and dirty air.

I fuckin’ hate the holidays.