Well thank God THAT’S over.
Christmas sucks. For me, anyway. It’s that dreaded time of year when I am forced to spend “quality” time with loved ones. Blech! Ptui! – I say.
My loved ones (and while I use that term repeatedly, I use it loosely) are a bunch of two-bit half-wits. Take my eighteen-year-old niece. She showed me this so-called “art” she created:
What a loser! I could do that. Anybody could, right? Obviously, she’s doomed to flipping burgers for the rest of her life. I fought the urge to tell her she was a no-talent hack; I figured that would just send her into yet another shrill drama queen scene that she’s so famous for.
Art, my ass.
Oh, and don’t get me started on that whole nasty train wreck of a Christmas gift exchange. A bunch of thoughtless crap that you have to pretend to be overjoyed about as you open it. For example, how about this garbage I got from my husband:
Now what am I supposed to say after opening this pile of dog turds? “Thank you, Honey”? “Oh, just what I always wanted, sweetie”?
Yeah, it was a Charlie Brown Christmas for me. It always is. But, it’s the cross I must bear, if I’m to get into Heaven someday. And so I go on pretending to like these people and feigning gratitude to have them in my lives.
