Bobby Hit Whitney Again And I Don't Like Peaches

I have a problem. I know, you're probably thinking no f@#king kidding crazy girl, but this is a different kind of problem. And I swear there will be no mention here of that movie with that actress and her kid who knows how much that body part on top of your shoulders weighs and likes going to that place you go to see the animals in cages.


My problem is with Christmas cards. I wish my problem was that I simply hated sending them, but no, god hates me (maybe it has something to do with stealing the Baby Jesus out of the manger, if so all I have to say is god, don't you have more important things to do than hold grudges, and hey, he must get his good looks from you), so of course it's more complex than that. The problem is, for reasons completely beyond me (and my therapist), I feel the need to send a Christmas card to everyone I know, and by know I mean people I actually know, plus people I pretend to know, and people I wish I knew, and this doesn't exclude FICTIONAL CHARACTERS from books or Television. You think I'm joking, but I swear on The Devil's Dictionary, which is about as close to a bible as it gets for me, last year I sent a Christmas card to Ramona Quimby from those Beverly Cleary books in which I told her I had always wanted to squeeze out a full tube of toothpaste, too, but never had the courage, and I hoped she would have a wonderful holiday. Yeah. Do you see now what I'm talking about? I need help.
It gets worse, too. I don't know if it's the bottle of wine I drink while making out the cards, or the glow of the lights on the tree, or the second bottle of wine, or the stockings hung by the chimney with care, or the third bottle of wine, or the chestnuts roasting on an open fire, but I tend to get a bit sentimental (translation: drunk). Not only do I send cards to everyone I've ever met in my life, but I use this time to be "open and honest" with everyone I've ever met in my life. I couldn't be one of those people who just writes "Happy Holidays, Love, Me", oh no. It's more like this :


Dear So-and-So (This could be you this year, who the hell knows, it's out of my hands),
'Tis the season! The season of love and warmth and pine cones or pine something anyway because boy it smells piney in here and mistletoe and the truth is I have always been in love with you and I know you're married and you have 9 children and you're my mailman, but you're so gentle when you put my magazines in my mailbox, making sure not to tear a single page, and I suspect you have always loved me, too, so let's not fight it any longer, let's be together, today, now, I want to rip your mailman uniform off you and have hot mailman sex with you in your mail truck and if I can't have you I see no reason to continue this charade of a life I am living. Best Wishes for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
Love, The Girl From 4G.


Only I don't live in 4G. You didn't really think I would give you my address, did you? You would be on my doorstep by the time I woke up tomorrow with a suitcase, an angry monkey (monkeys are not big on traveling), and a bag of Reese's peanut butter cups to win me over and then I would feel compelled to have sex with you invite you in and then you would hack me into little pieces just so you'd have something to write about in your next novel. I'm so on to you guys. But back to me. Me, me, me. The only solution I see to this card thing is one of you writing them out for me. Thanks, you're a peach. Hope you don't get any paper cuts from licking the envelopes and bleed to death, because I hear most of your blood is stored in your tongue. Yay, Holidays! Yay, You for writing my cards! I feel the love tonight, I am totally Elton John or maybe I'm Simba from The Lion King, but either way, I feel the love!