Listen Up, Christmas.

I know you're coming on Saturday. People who have more obligations and bigger extended families than I tend to dread you, but I always enjoy your visits. Family and togetherness and presents and alcohol are all well and good (preferably all at once, since that lends itself to drunken sobbing and kitchen appliances being hurled at one another), and I like shiny red bows as much as the next person. I'm still not sure why you keep bringing up that Jesus guy, though.

Not pictured: Mary's alcoholic uncle.

Dear History Channel,

You used to be my favorite cable network, and The Universe is still pretty awesome (whenever you actually decide to air it). Back in my bartending days, I especially appreciated how you would still air shows at 3 a.m. while the rest of the cable networks crapped out and switched to infomercials.

But I've got a bone to pick with you. This:

Is not history. Neither is this:

The Problem.

So yesterday I was in Wal-Mart (shut up) on my lunch break in full uniform. I probably looked a little odd with my gun, corresponding Batman utility belt, and badge, considering my arms were full of shampoo, conditioner, and eyeliner. It's not every day you see a firearm in the makeup aisle.

I'm kind of amazed Wal-Mart doesn't sell these.

In Which I Give My Complexion a Talking-To

I see what you're doing there, zit, and I don't approve.

Honestly? I am entirely too old to be dealing with you. I don't know how you missed the memo that you were supposed to magically disappear once I graduated high school, so I'm just giving you a heads-up here. You should be done with me by now. Genetics has already doomed me to skin of the, "Hey, you know that oil spill in the Gulf? It's all taken care of, because it's obviously migrated to my face" variety. Must you continue to complicate things further? Was the trouble you caused me during puberty not enough?

I want you to go to your room and think about what you've done. You should be ashamed of yourself.