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Lingerie, Bing Crosby, and Belly Bulge.

Lingerie, Bing Crosby, and Belly Bulge.

I’m very pleased with what I went to bed in tonight. I slipped under the covers in a lacy black razor back bra and even lacier black undies. For some reason, I feel more composed, and honest, and more me in this get up.

It should be noted that I am sleeping in my parents’ house like this, and it is Christmas Eve.

Yeah, I know. I’m going to hell.

This will be my twenty first Christmas and I have to confess a terrible, dirty secret… I am completely unexcited by the holidays this year. Save for an excellent Bing Crosby remix (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90TxbPVBzms) not much has made my heart go pitter patter with the sound of fuzzy reindeer shit and whatever.

I will say with confidence that this has nothing to do with the fact that I am alone. That’s right. I will be spending this Christmas dodging ‘so where’s your boyfriend?’ questions, and buying myself jewelry. I will also be quietly wishing that I could dump a bucket of donkey feces over the heads of all the bitches posting adorable ugly sweater selfies with their hot boyfriends on instagram.

But why is there such a stigma about this anyway? Why do we feel so incomplete, and dissatisfied, and (let’s face it) miserable when we have to spend a holiday alone?

Case in point, I’ve got this friend who’s pretty much all:
 
“Another Valentine’s Day alone. FML.”
“Another Christmas alone. FML.”
“Another President’s Day alone. FML.”
“Another Talk Like a Pirate Day alone. FML.”


 Ladies, some advice: Do not become this woman.

What the fuck is so wrong with taking some time for yourself? Look at it this way: You get to spend Christmas with someone who likes (or at least will tolerate) the food you cook, won’t argue over what to watch on TV, and gets all your jokes.

And yes, I am completely aware that this sounds like a crock of shit, but I’ll be honest with you. I’m single. I’m young. And I’m pretty content here in my sexy lingerie, snuggling with my kitten under the covers, and watching A Streetcar Named Desire for the seventy fifth time.

Tomorrow will come. I’ll eat enough food that fat pants will be necessary for the rest of the week, and the best part: I can go to bed perfectly content with my belly bulge, and not give a damn.

Single ladies out there: I suggest that you do the same.

Insanity, Yugiyoh, and Breaking Up

Insanity, Yugiyoh, and Breaking Up

Dear Jess

Dear Jess