Scary Mommy's Guide To Surviving The Holidays - Plot & Excerpts
The fact that he telepathically knew every detail of my daily behavior, both good and bad, made it that much creepier. My memories of Christmas Eve include sleeping with the covers pulled so tightly over my face that I could barely breathe, praying he didn’t decide to sneak into my room and harvest my kidneys on a whim. Our yearly in-the-flesh encounters were brief yet horrific. Every Christmas my parents took my sisters and me down to the VFW hall, which usually got the third-string Santas. They were the ones with the fake beards who smelled like bourbon and hoarding. As my family neared the front of the line, the screams of those who came before me became louder and more desperate. I considered offering my sisters up as sacrificial lambs and telling my mom I had to poop—that always made her hustle. Ultimately what kept me there was the promise of toys, which is pretty compelling when you’re a kid. Suddenly the crowd parted and there he was, fishing wax out of his ear and sitting on a metal folding chair.
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