Every year, I get asked the same question.
“What do you want for Christmas?”
Hrm. I have no idea.
I’m rather content with the stuff I’ve got.
Maybe an extra scrub brush for the carpet cleaner when the cat vomits, but beside that, I’m good.
“You don’t give scrub brushes for Christmas,” she says.
She dumped a pile of catalogs in my lap, and leaves more and more catalogs out for me to review.
I look through them, all full of crap I don’t want or need.
Then, I spot something.
A paper shredder.
For all these fucking catalogs.
Perfect.