Have I written an article about homesickness in the last Univers? What was I thinking? Apparently, I’ve forgotten what Christmas at home looks like.
I can’t talk to my teenage brother without flinching. He bet with his friends that he’s going to stretch the hole in his ear until he can carry a pack of cigarettes in it. I got used to his little earring, but a giant bison horn stuck in his ear just makes me nauseous.
My Grandma thinks that eating (or talking about eating) should be the primary occupation in one’s life. Even though she is skin and bones herself, she suspects anorexia in everyone around her. Do you want to know our little Christmas tradition? It’s her trying to force a fried carp down my brother’s throat. She still doesn’t get that shaking a plate with the mentioned fish under his nose year after year is not going to cut it.
On top of all that, I made my little brother hate Santa. I didn’t buy him a toy because my dad ensured me that he has everything a four-year-old can possibly want. Instead, I brought him some candy and Santa-shaped chocolate that I used to love so much at his age. Who wouldn’t want to bite a head off of a saint and be spared the consequences?
My little brother, having noticed a new gift under a Christmas tree, dropped a plastic truck on the floor causing all four wheels to fall off, stepped on a snowman singing “Jingle Bells” (insensitively interrupting the chorus) and seized the package. After throwing the chocolate Santa out of the bag and decapitating him prematurely, he grumbled: “Where’s the toy?!”
Since my explanation that Santa has a toy limit per child, I think he has started designing the Invade the North Pole plan.