"Wore a "scary" costume that was just your regular clothes"
You said you were "a person who has given up." Nobody laughed, but everyone understood.
The Catalog · All sins
Holiday and time-of-year transgressions: the Halloween candy raid, the Thanksgiving pie standoff, the white elephant theft and the New Year's resolution that lasted three days. A new batch arrives with each season.
You said you were "a person who has given up." Nobody laughed, but everyone understood.
Nine kids rang the bell. You answered the door with a mouth full of fun-size Snickers.
You haven't replied since September. Technically, that's just excellent commitment to the bit.
The children looked at you the way you look at a bill you've been avoiding.
The inspection found the Reese's. The inspection also found the Kit Kats. The inspection is ongoing.
You sat silently in your own home like a raccoon in a trash can. The doorbell rang eleven times.
You spent twenty minutes explaining it. The explanation was the costume.
It was already carved. It was already glowing. It is now yours and unreasonably smug.
Eleven people were still eyeing it. You made eye contact with none of them.
The knife was right there. The gravy was ready. Your cousin had a dozen opinions and a strong grip.
The ice was cold, as promised. The expectations of your host were also cold.
You sat on the edge of the tub for twenty minutes, scrolling. The cranberry sauce has no memory of this.
It was a test taste. The test lasted four servings and the table found out.
Nobody asked. You also did not answer when somebody complimented the crust.
The football game was on. The football game was winning.
The calendar offered resistance. You offered a Mariah Carey streak.
The card was still in the box. So was the original giver, in the audience.
The gift was a mug. The mug had a logo. The logo was from a different company.
You rewrapped them. The tape was a different tape. The tape knows.
"Stealing is part of the game," you said, holding a weighted blanket that was not yours.
They were festive in December and a legal matter by Easter. The neighbors have a group chat.
The sweater was beige. The look on your face was the opposite of beige.
The plans were a couch, a blanket, and a documentary about bridges.
There was a space for your name. You wrote the word "Me." HR has questions.
The gym membership is still active. The gym does not know your face.
The old you is still here. They've made themselves comfortable on your couch.
The ball dropped. You were dreaming about snacks. You woke up in the future, disappointed.
The countdown ended. So did several friendships and one decision-making process.
You said it at 11:58 p.m. to a person whose last name you still don't know.
Eleven photos, one sunset, and zero mentions of the three weeks you spent ordering from the same pizza place.
The Friday arrived. So did the wine. So did a very flexible definition of "dry."
The tree is now a lifestyle choice. The needles have become part of your floor.