Almost Everything I Hate About Myself Is Embodied in One Thing ...

The holiday card. Yup, I said it! Yeah, I know some of you sent me one. And don't get me wrong, I liked it. In that, "this is-cute-for-a-minute-and-I'm-glad-you-sent-it" kind of a way. Even though some of them actually misspelled both my name and the names of the other three members of my family. Just saying. Not saying I didn't think it was nice. Even the ones from people who have my address but still don't know how to spell my name, apparently. Not saying I didn't save these for a few days before guiltily recycling them in no particular order. Also not saying I won't happily return home to a few more of these in my mailbox. My cup/mailbox runneth over with holiday cards. I am grateful!

Except for the fact that each of these cards kind of secretly makes me want to kill myself like, a teensy tiny little bit. It could have something to do with the fact that I am writing this blog post from the toilet while crying for unrelated reasons. But 'tis the season for gastrointestinal distress, self-reflection, and tears, isn't it people? Come on. WHAT. You think shitting-blogging-crying simultaneously (Shcrygging?) on literally the darkest day of winter at your parents'  house is "over-sharing" and "TMI?" Sorry, hombre. You are dead wrong.

If you can't take the heat, get out of the shcrygging kitchen, because EVERYONE in Brooklyn is shcrygging now, even in their parents' houses, and actually, especially at their parents' house on the winter solstice. I should know: I just took four different subway lines (M to the F to the A to the 1, and no that is not a line from a Beastie Boys song) from Williamsburg (SO COOL) to Riverdale (SO LAME). And I can report that schcrygging is like, the coolest thing since artisanal craft beer and having a tomato farm on the roof of your building in Bushwick.

Oh come on. WHAT. What about shcrygging would suggest that the name of this blog is at all apt? Besides the fact that I just admitted that I get a microscopically bit suicidal when I receive a beautiful, 4x6 piece of embossed card stock in the mail whose worst offense is to depict children and puppies and freshly-showered parents sweetly wishing me peace, joy, and love for the New Year from the whatever family to mine?

And yet . . .  and yet . . . I just cannot with the holiday card. I am too lazy, cynical, and just plain disastrous. The idea of culling through photos of my family, selecting a template, making the card, asking people for their addresses, addressing the envelopes, licking the envelopes, buying stamps, affixing stamps, and putting the cards in the mailbox seems more daunting than creating an entire second family to generate more holiday cards. And what does this say about me? Nothing good, I'm afraid. Which is why the holiday card embodies almost everything I hate about myself and more.

But don't worry. This isn't a cry for help. It's a cry for the zillions of trees who fell in the name of holiday cards that just inspired a blog post about shitting, crying, and tomato gardens in Bushwick. Because really. No tree deserves that.