dear irby and ian:
how do i get out of spending thanksgiving with my girlfriend's family?
irby: i'm sure there are a lot of women reading this who just became INSTANTLY ENRAGED reading this question, thinking about all of the times they've had to drag some kicking and screaming dude to little caleb's third birthday party or uncle jack's retirement celebration or gram and grampy's 700th anniversary. women who have screamed, cried, yelled, begged, pleaded, threatened, cajoled, and otherwise humiliated and subjugated themselves to get some asshole who swears he loves the shit out of them to drive six hours to aunt becky's for turkey day, only to find that motherfucker sulking drunk on the couch with his jeans unzipped twenty minutes after dinner is served, texting some hot trashy bitch who is less demanding.
i am not one of these women.
here is the sweet shit about being a goddamned orphan: i really don't ever have to do anything i don't want to do, ESPECIALLY around the holidays. i killed my parents so i wouldn't have to deal with having to referee family arguments and pretending to have fun with people i sort of hate whom i happen to be related to IN THE SPIRIT OF THE HOLIDAY SEASON. my sisters and i were raised by the kind of people who didn't make construction paper hand turkeys or hang indian corn on the front door or LOVE US, OBVIOUSLY. we instead were subjected to my father's lengthy monologues about pilgrims and grave robbers and wampanoags and shorn scalps; who the fuck wants to eat a turkey leg after that?! i would just sit in my room and listen to lou rawls "merry christmas ho ho ho!" on cassette thanksgiving night, hoping the four-day weekend would hurry up and get over with so i could go back to school, a place where people actually cared about having fun and enjoying things. way to ruin my childhood, asshole.
anyway, i like to make my own frozen single-serving individual meal and stay home in my pajamas fading in and out of sleep while watching football on thanksgiving, NOT put on clothes with buttons and zippers and shoes i have to tie to sit in some stranger's living room eating food that will probably definitely land me in the emergency room. thanksgiving is a day to reflect on all the reasons i hate my life and all the things i would be thankful for if the universe would stop shitting down my goddamned throat. i like to spend thanksgiving musing over my failures and compiling a list of enemies and assholes that i'm going to try my best to totally fucking destroy in the oncoming year. what good health? what happy family?! i raise my glass to the many defeats that have befallen me and vow to rise from the ashes stronger and filled with more galvanizing hatred. I HATE EVERYTHING AND NOTHING GOOD EVER HAPPENS TO ME, and the last thing i would like to do on the last thursday of november is sit in someone else's lovely home and marvel at all of the proof that if there even is a god he loves them and hates me.
and since i will never have the joy of subjecting some dude to the withering scrutiny of my mean-ass, joy-killing, holiday-ruining parents, i am totally hesitant to let some dude do that shit to me. i can't be up all night wringing my hands about whether or not your mother will approve of my pumpkin pie recipe or turn her nose up because my skirt is an inch too short. fuck that bitch. i'm going to sit home in my own filth and root for whomever is playing against the lions and maybe cry because no one loves me and, despite my salty exterior, christmas commercials fucking kill me and i can't help welling up at the sight of a silver lexus topped with a bright red bow. HOW DO THEY EVEN MAKE BOWS THAT BIG?! and no one will put up a fuss when i turn down her invite, because all i have to do is fill my eyes with glassy fake tears and blink like a five-year-old and make whatever kind soul is offering me a seat at her table feel like a goddamned bully.
so, gentle sir, tell your girlfriend your parents are dead. and that being in the midst of a happy family celebration when you don't have one of your own is unbearable for you. she should eat it right up. bitches love the idea that their bickering siblings and lumpy brown gravy are a source of pain and jealousy for you. seriously, bitches are FUELED by knowing someone envies what we have. your girl might even let you holler at her butthole because she feels so bad for you. and if you bitch up and find yourself sticking to a plastic-covered couch, squashed between alcoholic aunt mildred and ambiguously gay cousin marvin, i'll be at home awaiting your text.