I’ve decided that it is, once again, time to blog about the mundane—I’ve run out of Christmas cards and I need to go buy more. I’ve plenty of stamps, but no cards to put them on.
Every year that I buy cards I try to find something awful. This years batch takes the cake, eats it all, vomits it back up, and then serves it to you. That’s super bad. I can already see the disgust on peoples faces as they open up my cards—the disdain—the “Oh…my…god…what in the fuck did I just get myself into!” looks. It goes without saying that these cards are awesomely terrible. If you’re getting one, you should be terrified. I’m not talking “mysterious white powder in the envelope terrified,” but the terror is close and it isn’t a lie. (I probably shouldn’t write that. There are absolutely zero biological weapons in my Christmas cards. There are also exactly zero controlled substances.)
For some reason I thought that ten cards was going to be enough—like I only know ten people, or something. Even combining couples, I need more than ten cards. Also—and I’m not sure if it is yet a problem—I am not really sure if I will be able to find the same cards. Potentially, half of my friends are going to get the worst cards ever and the other half are going to get something almost as equally terrible but probably not quite as bad. That is, unless I manage to find the cards I got before. The problem is that these were kind of haphazardly placed in a random aisle of the store and I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to find where they actually were supposed to be. And, if I do find where they were supposed to be, I can’t guarantee there will be any left over.
The main problem will be locating the Chirstmas cards—as a man I can not ask for directions to them. It’s impossible. I’d rather wander aimlessly for hours than admit to a store employee that I have no idea where I’m going.