I Give Myself Gifts on Christmas

I give myself gifts on Christmas. And yes, because I'm still going for the element of surprise, I wrap them presents until they're as pretty as summer. At least I'm sure that there's something to look forward to, some wonderful souvenir that will at least try to elicit a look of pleasant surprise, however practiced, come Christmas Eve.

I do this because I hate crappy gifts.

I AM buying the fancy idea poor people say a lot about thoughts counting more than the gift itself on account of I do tend to rain on somebody's Christmas day parade. On purpose. Most especially if I suspect that person to have wrapped this 10-piece shoe horn set with my name on it. Or if this other person gave me this monogrammed towel with the letters C A on it. Which is either a bad choice for a gift on account of my initials are R T. Or it might be a very cruel joke which meant the towel belongs to some Crazy Asshole.

But, like the good sport that I am, I always receive such presents with a fake smile. Or a straight face. Whichever is more appropriate.

The fake science that is Gift Shopping's pretty much hit-and-miss. You miss all the time, unless of course you're armed with a detail-specific wish list. Underscore specific since "porn," on its own, won't cut it if you get your kicks jacking off to gay male porn only to receive three volumes of heavy lesbian loving sea games.