I am officially drowning in the Christmas Spiral epidemic.

I mean, a full on collapse of the Tower of Pisa.

Y’all are wrapping presents and listening to Christmas carols and I’m blaring Violent Femmes and digging boxes out of the Dumpster behind the liquor store.

Everyone looks so fresh and nice and I’m trapped in the car at Hardee’s because I have on no bra, hand-me-down maternity pajamas, and am barefooted.

You're cooking and baking and making freshly wrapped treats and I’m pondering going to get a Slurpee, but again, the pajamas.

How did my mother do it? I don’t remember her being frazzled, though she did lock us out of the house for long periods of time.

Where in the devil should I hide stuff? The sneaky mo fos that live with me are super sneaky, like CIA-training-program-level sneaky.

I don’t enjoy my children enough to want them out of school. I’m so worried about what we will do for a week that I am paralyzed in fear and am wondering how much more Zoloft I can ingest safely.

And then there's the guilt for complaining about my dumb old problems when people are suffering.

I mean, I know it’s relative, but I need emotional support for my admitted shallowness.

Lastly, I look like Cruella de Vil.

Merry Christmas, f-ers.

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