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The Bermuda Triangle

Whoooosh! … [Insert scream]… Thwump! Pop! … [Insert louder scream] … OOOOMPH!

That was the sound of me being sucked into the dreaded Holiday Bermuda Triangle, that singular point which lies at the dark twisted heart created by the proximity of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s. This is a place beyond time, space, logic, and budget; a place so horrible, so dreadful, that grown women (me) have been known to weep at the mere thought of it.

Right now, it’s T plus 5 days and counting. I thought I was going to escape this year, but today I realized that there is no escape.

Ever.

And so I’ve been sucked up into that triangular black hole headfirst. The only thing that prevents me from disappearing entirely is that I got stuck halfway, saved by my…um…generous hips.

I don’t like turkey much, or creamed spinach. I don’t like shopping. I don’t like enforced gift-giving. I don’t like holy days being twisted into holidays, and then twisted more into dollar days. And I don’t like maudlin sentimentality and outlandish resolutions.

If only I weren’t supposed to be so darn cheerful besides.

Because I don’t like cheerful much either.

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