Stuck with Mr. Ex-Bodyguard on Christmas Eve? That wasn't on my wish list, Santa. But then again, neither was falling in love.
Please tell me this is just a remake of Nightmare on Elm Street—the Christmas version. I'd sooner face Freddy Krueger with a Santa hat than deal with this. My phone is blowing up. I'm surely going to get fired. I might as well crawl under a Christmas tree and never come out. Maybe I should travel to the North Pole and ask Santa for help.
I pull my oversized scarf tighter around my neck, eyeing the treacherous sidewalk beneath me. If I fall flat on my ass now, that would be the perfect cherry on top of... oh, crap. Three more messages. I must not think about the fact that the entire town must have read that letter... oh, and let's not forget my mother. Or Damian. No, no, no.
Dear Santa,
They say "fake it till you make it," but I'm running out of filter options for my "living my best life" selfies. Can you gift wrap some actual success this year? My five-year plan didn't include "hide in small town" or "lust after the Grinch's hotter, grumpier cousin."
My vibrator (Vampire 2.0) doesn't compare and is filing a complaint for neglect.
All I want for Christmas is… well, not him. Definitely not him. Maybe one more round. For closure..
With Love,
Your Confused Columnist
