For my family, whom I am sure will not read this
Today is my birthday. My age is a prime number whose digits added together make a prime number, whose digits added together make a prime number, totalling two, and the number of alterations totals 3, 23 being my birthdate. Funny that.
Anyway, about now is our traditional time to exchange lists of suggestions of what we want for Christmas. This time, I have to tell you what I explicitly don't want. I've tried, for years, to be nice about it. I've even been a little forward, but I've never pulled out the baseball bat and whacked you over the head with the truth, graciousness be damned.
It's simple. Don't give me food for Christmas.
I don't care if you think it looks tasty. I really don't care if you want it for yourself. I don't. Or, rather, I probably do, but I can't. You want your gifts to be accepted & appreciated, fine. Give me something that doesn't amount to an insult in pretty paper. If you have to give someone food, give it to someone who can't afford to feed their families. If you give me food, that's where it's going, anyway.
Do you get it, yet?
You tell me, "Oh, I think you'll like this..." and then I turn it over, look at the list of ingredients, and the first one is "sugar". Oh, hell yeah, I'll like that. I'll love it to death. At least let me commit suicide on my own terms. Or, if you're really trying to kill me, and despise me that much, don't act so clueless about it. "Here, Bill, eat this. It tastes good, and will cause a slow & painful death. Merry Christmas."
I don't care that you have good intentions. Get a clue. Maybe I should write it on a sugar packet and throw it at you -- not that the method works, but it sure is sweet to see.
Please, for the love of God, don't give me food for Christmas.
Anyway, about now is our traditional time to exchange lists of suggestions of what we want for Christmas. This time, I have to tell you what I explicitly don't want. I've tried, for years, to be nice about it. I've even been a little forward, but I've never pulled out the baseball bat and whacked you over the head with the truth, graciousness be damned.
It's simple. Don't give me food for Christmas.
I don't care if you think it looks tasty. I really don't care if you want it for yourself. I don't. Or, rather, I probably do, but I can't. You want your gifts to be accepted & appreciated, fine. Give me something that doesn't amount to an insult in pretty paper. If you have to give someone food, give it to someone who can't afford to feed their families. If you give me food, that's where it's going, anyway.
Do you get it, yet?
You tell me, "Oh, I think you'll like this..." and then I turn it over, look at the list of ingredients, and the first one is "sugar". Oh, hell yeah, I'll like that. I'll love it to death. At least let me commit suicide on my own terms. Or, if you're really trying to kill me, and despise me that much, don't act so clueless about it. "Here, Bill, eat this. It tastes good, and will cause a slow & painful death. Merry Christmas."
I don't care that you have good intentions. Get a clue. Maybe I should write it on a sugar packet and throw it at you -- not that the method works, but it sure is sweet to see.
Please, for the love of God, don't give me food for Christmas.