How to Ruin Christmas: A Victim’s Story

Amongst my many admirable traits I am, for the most part, a congenital hoarder. Though I know it’s useless junk, it’s my useless junk and we just can’t seem to part ways. Besides, sorting out through piles of stuff you didn’t know you had is almost as good as dumpster diving at Goodwill.

During one of my many treasure hunts (courtesy of my laundry room turned storage shed) I came across one of these:

Now I may be a hoarder, but I cut no corners on serious affairs like cooking pasta.

And this reminded me of the plethora of other terrible Christmas presents I’ve been the reluctant recipient of over the years. Lo and behold, my Christmas story was born:

How to Ruin Christmas: A Victim’s Story

Fear grips my heart; I take the stairs three at a time forgetting my socks and other various articles of clothing necessary to sustain life in all thirty degrees of this glorious wintery morning.

And there it is.

There.

As I fight my way to the front of the room I’m forced to slam my baby brother into the living room couch because, like Steven Seagal in Under Siege 2, this freight train waits for no one.

Terror claws at my stomach as I launch myself at the dozens of little packages spread out under the tree. Weeks of patiently waiting have paid off.

Within seconds I rip off all three layers of the frosty the snowman wrapping paper and finally find it.

My heart skips a beat. It’s… It’s… PAJAMAS? 

My stomach plunges. I fight back tears, seeking immediate vengeance on that fat old man who obviously mixed up my presents with those of a middle-aged housewife.

What the hell is a cool, composed, and mature seven year old such as myself supposed to do with a set of CARE BEAR PAJAMAS. In fact they’re not even Care Bear pajamas, they’re shitty Chinese knockoff “Care Bare” pajamas, a name that should have probably raised some red flags with my parents prior to their purchase.

After that, Christmas was never the same.

I’m not quite sure why parents are conditioned to get you crappier presents as you age, but I’ve conveniently drawn a pictorial representation of the slow and degenerative path of awesomeness my Christmas presents have taken through the years:

Has your heart been torn out and mutilated by the likes of old Saint Nick? Feel free to join in the discussion if you yourself are a victim of such depravity.

Worst-case scenario, it turns out to be a therapeutic experience where we all learn to cope with our first world existential crises.