it's december, the house smells like bleach and ham, and there is no safe haven. your fingers are cramped from dusting, the only reason you can't hear your sister's carols is because the vacuum never shuts off, and your father is mysteriously missing from the gingerbread house that was once your kitchen. your extended family should have stayed on the other side of the state line, where you couldn't see them. or care about them.

the ornament on the tree reads 'heaven on earth', but you know better. hell has come to earth, and the only one who hasn't succumbed to the utter absurdity and lunacy of this sham is you.

happy hellidays from this end of the inferno.

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