...Remind me to tell you of the time I went to my parent's house for Christmas Eve, even though I swore I would not attend.
I had made that vow out of spite, but as it turns out I should have made it out of a sense of decency.
All I know is that I wound up with my face painted red and green like a hockey game and talked my inebriated aunt into telling everyone she gave a random stranger a blow job at the corner gas station.
Then, on the way home after a power drinking holiday fest, I puked all over the inside and outside of my parent's newish car.
A few hours later, I sobered up and realized I had been on Craigslist talking to lonely, desperate trannies and sending them to the addresses of people I do not like—for a real Christmas morning surprise.
More time passed. Around five in the morning, I descended my stairs and discovered a huge Ziploc bag of meatballs on my counter, which was sitting next to an equally huge bag of Christmas cookies, a box of Rice Krispies Treats, and a pint of Southern Comfort.
"Good Lord," I thought, "What the hell happened? And why isn't every Christmas like this?"
I could definitely grow used to this strange, consumerist custom if this is the normal outcome.