It’s December, which means that you’ve probably read all of the daring thinkpieces about how Love, Actually is the greatest holiday movie, ever, despite its many, many flaws, or the other, more daring thinkpieces about how Love, Actually, is the worst holiday movie, ever, because of the aforementioned flaws. And I shouldn’t be adding gasoline to that already overrun fire. I shouldn’t. But dear ones, I’ve spent the last 11 months thinking about this post. It started haunting me on December 26th of last year, the same way you get an idea for a brilliant Halloween costume on November 1st, or how you start eating sugar cubes whole, like a racehorse, immediately after a dental cleaning.
And I need to exorcise this tiny demon inside of me, lest it start inviting its friends over for the most incoherent Christmas Pageant ever, complete with lobsters. But I’m getting ahead of myself.