My least favorite thing about Christmas is church. My most favorite thing about Christmas is stalking shoppers walking to their cars. I follow unreasonably close and pursue them like a creeper. I flash my lights. I throw the car in park and rev my engine. When shoppers turn and look at me, I shout "Merry Christmas." I smile and wave like a normal person. It confuses people.
This Christmas, my mom bought matching pajama pants for herself, me, and my sister. They were from Abercrombie & Fitch and collectively cost what I had been getting paid for a week's work in New Zealand. I tend to shop at Forever 21 and H&M. All major clothing chains employ children and are ensconced in labor scandals. I might as well get my clothes cheap.
Christmas morning, we opened presents. My mom, sister, and I wore our matching pajamas, and my brother got my mom a big-ass candle.
"It smells so good!" she exclaimed and immediately lit it in her bathroom. Minutes later, my sister changed out of her new pajama shirt and pants. She threw those pricey p.j.'s on the bathroom counter. On top of the candle. The candle exploded.
Christmas casualties one and two: new pajamas, new candle.