the F-ing X-mas F-ing Spirit.

There are two things in this world that I believe above all other - badly fitting underwear will ruin an otherwise amazing outfit and Nice Matters.

This holiday season I'm pretty well on my way to Poverty. Well, not WELL on my way, but certainly within the Poverty Metropolitan Area. It's okay, I'm happy. I like my job despite the fact I work for about $2/hr when all is said and done. There are more important things. Like not being homicidal. But when it comes to being all Holly Fucking Jolly, I'm just...not. I put up a string of Christmas lights so that we're not the Scrooge House and I wrapped and mailed the presents, but if it were up to me, we'd all just sleep in and then eat waffles in our pajama's on Saturday just like if it was any other Saturday of the year.

Call me the Grinch, it's okay, I can take it.

But, in true Grinch Spirit, my cold, black heart grew a few sizes this morning when a Tiny Tim-esque boy held open the door at the Quick Trip for an elderly woman with a walker and an oxygen tank. Seriously, Kittens. How much more Tear to The Eye can we get? A kid the size of a hedgehog wrestling the door open so Grandma Moses can buy a 4 Loko and a pack of Marlboro Unfiltereds? It was fucking beautiful, that.