Me: The high note in Mariah Carey’s holiday anthem, “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” You almost had me in your car last night. Sweet Christ, you almost had me.
Really work that diaphragm, darling. I’ll be waiting.
4 y/o Boy Seeking 4-Legged Friend
You are my uncle’s Chiweenie, and I can see you shaking under the bed. I just want to ride you like a pony and pull out all your hairs. My dad said to be gentle so I will do it one by one.
Call me on my Fisher Price Chatter Phone if you wanna play.
Ready for This Jelly?
It’s me again—that can of gelatinous cranberry sauce crooning to you from the Sunday Penny Saver. You don’t know why you want me, but you do. Sure, I’ll end up gathering dust in your pantry next to a bag of slivered almonds and a backup bottle of sesame oil. But you never know when you’ll need two different kinds of corn syrup in log form.
I’m on sale at ALDI. Take the plunge.
Iced Guys Finish Last
You: “A goddamn adult.”
Me: The matching set of oversized pajamas your Great-Aunt Cookie mails from Bethesda every year. This year I’m lined with fleece and covered in tiny, wild-eyed gingerbread men.
Try me on. Cookie wants pictures.
Misery Demands Company
I was inviting you—once again—to come see the house and meet the kids. The first time I called, you were too “bus-lagged” (note: you haven’t changed time zones). The second time, you were “balls deep in a crossword.” Our McMansion is only 45 minutes from your folks’ place, and our children are now shrieking at third-grade level. What exactly is the holdup?
Call me back—we don’t text. I’d love to guilt-trip you about this in person.
Liver Seeking Restraint
Please stop pounding me with Fireballs like Super Mario. Every time you see a friend from high school or hear an AC/DC song at the Rock It Grill, your self-control shrivels up and dies—and me with it.
Honestly, I hate your guts. (No offense to the intestinal tract.) I’d leave if I could.
You: Shiny green tree.
I come for you soon.
Round, Sound, Want to Be Used
To the otherwise eco-conscious mom who plows through 50 paper plates a day: Have you forgotten your ceramic tableware? Your harem of fine glasses? We’re in our prime, woman, and you haven’t touched us in years. Take us out, load us up, lick us clean, and slide us into your fully functional dishwasher.
Cross Us Off Your List
Remember us? Last year’s New Year’s resolutions? No sugar, you said. Daily meditation, you said. Empathy toward your inept coworker, you said. Well, look at us now. A year later and you’re still dusting donut crumbs off your laptop so you can screenshot Kat’s latest gaffe.
Revisit us on the 31st, you coward. We’ll see if we can make this work.
Missed You… Again
You: A relaxing holiday.
Me: Dehydrated, depleted, stuck in traffic.
God, I want you so bad.
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