Let me just start by saying that I love finals like a fat kid loves broccoli. I know everyone just wants them to be over with, but I want Taylor Swift’s hairstylist for Christmas and we all know that ain’t gonna happen. It’s the time of the season to whine about impending doom for sure, but since you guys got tips on surviving next week on Tuesday, I thought I‘d provide the inspiration.
You see, kiddies, you do have something to live for in these black days of turmoil. You’ve just got to hold on till you reach the sunny side of the hill, to a tall proud city built on rocks stronger than oceans … oh, shit. Wrong speech.
Anywho, I’ve compiled a reminder of all that awesomeness you have to look forward to after next Friday, when you pack up your junk, catch the next car/train/Vespa out, and head off toward home.
You’ll get to see your friends. Like the ex-boyfriend who turkey-dropped you and already has a replacement girlfriend who’s still in high school and thinks he’s God cause he’s, like, in college. And your supposed BFF, who came back from college totally different. She only eats tofu, refuses to shower and most unfortunately of all, is no longer interested in hearing you rant.
Wintertime is family time. Lotsa people see the holidays as a time to reunite with every one of those wacky bastards in your gene pool. I’ve always been mildly jealous of people with big obnoxious families who like to party hardy. Perhaps the most notable of the bunch is the Drunkle – and there always seems to be one. You can always count on him to drain the scotch and steal the show when your old thrice-married windbag of an aunt is ragging on your cousins for not being married yet. He’s that one dude who may or may not even be related to you, but always manages to crash the casa since the bars are closed. He’s never been married, has no kids, and is pretty much the result of manchildren like Tom Green not getting their shit together and growing up. Drunkles are best enjoyed in small doses and will gladly buy beer for you and your friends.
You get stuff. It’s the only time someone’s gonna offer you a new Wii system or digital camera on someone else’s birthday. Or in celebration of oil that lasted a freakishly long time ages ago. Or just party cause you’re proud of your culture and history. Hopefully your aunt didn’t have to run some bitch down with a stroller for that last cashmere sweater. Of course, if your family rolls like mine, you got a stack of I.O.Us so that they could buy you whatever it was that they promised when it’s time for post-holiday sales. Hey, I understand. It’s tough times with the economy and all.
And then there’s everything else. Baker’s Square has candy cane pie, Will Smith is taking his 43rd swing at saving the world, the cold weather gives you permission to insulate yourself with a delicious layer of fat and then disguise it with an ugly sweater, you can make dirty dreidels, there’s always Festivus if you wanna mix it up and mistletoe is the perfect excuse to get all over some poor unsuspecting hottie. Basically, winter break is three lovely weeks of smooth-sailing and denial of the real world. You’re close, real close. Should you find yourself frustrated with endoplasmic reticulums, don’t forget that there’s always the fine art of the pantsless study sesh.
MICHELLE RICK will be 21 next time you hear from her. Chide her on safety precautions for this tremendous event at firstname.lastname@example.org. She’ll chide you right back with safety precautions on surviving Christmas Eve shopping at the mall, your mother’s peanut brittle and walking on rooftops as you ring in the New Year.