Nah-vidad

Well, there was no iPod, much less a Darcy, under the tree this morning. Maybe because there was no tree to begin with... just that nativity scene... but still.
I am getting a PS3 though...
Yeah. I didn't know I was such a gamer, either.
It's mainly for the blue ray capacity, but... if we can play games on it as well, well... fuck it, bring it. Looks like someone's going to be learning how to shoot people for Black Ops or some shit.

I was excited about being able to use one of my gifts today, but it turns out my GIANT fucking head impedes my use of it. Story of my life. You'd think I'd be smarter with the size of my skull.

I also have an ulcer... a stuffed one :)
Kelley gave me a "stuffed animal" that is actually a "stuffed bacteria" (Helicobacter pylori).
Me: Oh my God! Is this flagella right here?!
Kelley: That's what I was thinking...
Me: Awww! How cute! I love it!
M: Only you guys would understand a gift like that. You nerds.
And she's right, only Kelley and I would get it.
We'd sit in so many science classes drawing cartoons of the various subjects we'd be learning... well... besides in O-chem and biochem. Our doodles usually consisted of drawing unhappy stick figures with guns saying "WTF?!" for those four semesters.
When learning the histology of the penis (in a cross-section view), we'd sit there and draw the cross-section and name it "Cartman" (hey, the resemblance is uncanny!)... and then draw Kyle and Stan.
It's how we survived (by fucking around in class and making jokes of everything). So of course I'm fond of it (the ulcer plush toy).

Then we have Pacemakers fucked up gifts... which I actually do like. I wound up using most of them, and discovered that bastard pore-reducing mask works magic. It's quite terrifying. I was hoping I'd never get into being such a girly girl, but it appears I've been suckered into yet another girly habit.
It's gonna be hard to keep up.

That's all for Christmas.
Not much spirit?
Pacemaker asked me-- quite angrily, I must say-- what the hell was up with my family and our (lack of) tradition.
Pacemaker: What the fuck are you guys? Fucking Jehovah's Witnesses?! You're definitely not Catholic!
Me: No, we are... we totally drink like Catholics.

I thought back to the last year I was a "believer" of Santa (not really Santa. Mom told me he was Baby Jesus' biatch. So I was all about Baby Jesus):

December of 1994, I was nine, and for the last two years a couple of classmates had been douchebags trying to convince me of Santa's non-existence.
I had first heard of Santa not being real from my "babysitter," you know, the dumb bitch responsible for my first (plastic-pony-swing-induced) concussion, when I was about four... I came home crying and told Mom, then Mom got all up in Babysitter's face and damn near fought her, so Babysitter had to take it back.
Anyway, this year--1994-- I asked for the most impossible shit.
My parents, huh? Alright... this will teach them to lie to ME.
Dear Santa, this year I would like:
A VIOLIN!
In my head, violins were like, 600 dollars.
Since I've been a vindictive little cunt for the majority of my life, I thought I'd get them back this way.

I had suspected my douchebag classmates to be telling the truth, since that summer Rafa and I found a couple of our old Santa Letters in Mom and Dad's condom drawer.
Yeah... we messed with that drawer... to punish the other, of course. We first started playing with that drawer when Rafa started throwing Dad's underwear at me when we'd fight in the bedroom. We were having this massive underwear-fight when we suddenly ran out of underwear.
We desperately looked in the drawer for more underwear, but what did we find instead? An opened box of condoms... blue Trojans... I still remember (it was a blue box with the silhouette of a man and a woman staring at each other as the sun set, I believe).
Grossest discovery ever.
Little Sister walked in at that moment, grabbed a condom, removed the condom from the wrapper, pranced over to the living room (where Dad was watching television) -- blowing into the condom-- while asking "Papi, que es esto?! (Daddy, what is this?!) A balloon? Why is it wet? It makes it harder to blow!"

Rafa and I stayed in the bedroom, because (aside from knowing our ass was gonna get kicked for fucking around with the condom drawer) we noticed that under the Trojan box were our Santa Letters.
It was a distressing time... because we didn't know what to be appalled by most: Mom and Dad having sex, Little Sister embarrassing Dad in the living room, or Mom and Dad possibly being Santa.

We put everything away and set our plan of asking for the most preposterous shit imaginable.

Then came Christmas.
I woke up that morning, and what did I see near my shoes (that was our style. Fuck stockings), under the Christmas tree? A violin.
Oh my God! He's real!!
Just when I had regained my faith, Mom called Rafa and me into the kitchen, and told us the truth.
NO!
(Rafa's devastation was worse than mine. He looked like they had just told him Santa had been gunned down by the mafia)

And that was my last "real" Christmas.

Merry Christmas, guys.