If you’re reading this right now you are seriously desperate for some distractions from your family. All the Christmas Oatmeal has been eaten and the reenactment of Christ’s birth has taken place on your living room floor, and now you’re searching for some sort of connection to the person you’ve become, because you don’t really remember the kid that lived in this little house, whose pictures adorn the walls and bookshelves. To pass some of the time before you crack that first bottle of Kahlua let me tell you a little story about Christmas. A little story I’m writing on a Greyhound bus called the Lucky Streak where you get 66% reimbursed for your round trip ticket by whatever casino you end up pulling into in Atlantic City. Pretty sure the guy eating an egg salad sandwich and drinking purple soda next to me is going to steal my computer before I finish, but let me at least start. Enter the Ghost of Christmas Past… 13 years ago you were 13 years younger (I got a 740 in my math SATs)

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