Miranda Babbitt
Assistant LifeStyle Editor

The wait for you each year feels so much longer than 365 days. It feels like a billion, drawn out, sugarless hours, as though I am perpetually stuck in the post-sugar-high rut. This is a condition characterized by alarmingly low levels of Christmas spirit, persistent drowsiness, and a general sense of whatever, man. Its onset is caused by the distinct and often ridiculously sudden disappearance of our favourite friends, our baked friends – our Christmas goodies.

Apparently you’re made of an addictive quality, and so if you’re not by our side, a fierce craving fills the void you have left in our hearts, or stomach. Sugar, they call it. You know, at one point in time, I thought I knew everything about you. Now I feel like I hardly know you at all. Are you angry because, what, we eat you? Look, friendships are about sacrifices. Let’s not get into this again. I’m mad at you. You left us all over again. No tins of shortbread, no jars of rainbow-sprinkled brownies, and certainly no polka-dot plate adorned by a charming red velvet cake, dollops of white icing dipping up and down like the sea of joy it is.

You know how we like to pretend we’re disappointed to see you for the sake of our waistlines? Yeah, that’s a big fat lie. Everyone likes to feed into the twisted, hilariously common misconception that their body is, among other things, a temple so sacred that one cookie will lead to a devastating collapse, walls crashing down the flour-dusted kitchen tiles. When you come through our front door, often held in the hands of our grandma (not emasculating at all, I don’t know what you’re going on about), or after having magically appeared on our bedside table paired with a cup of tea, haven’t you noticed the way our eyes light up? That’s chemistry, my love.

And let me just say, come Christmas time, you’re a damn miracle. Honestly, your conception is divine nearly every time. You are reborn each holiday. Man plus woman = human. But sugar, spice, plus everything nice = miracle. I know you’re not comfortable with the talk still. I’m just saying I, for one, do not disregard your divinity.

So, can you stay? Just a couple weeks more? I literally just stooped to the level of hailing you as divine. Buddy, I just likened you to a god. Fine, sugar-coating the problem won’t work? What about some brutal honesty, huh?

You’re severely emasculated when you’re carried to my front door in my grandma’s arms. There. It had to be said.


Still want U back


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