THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS, AND EVERYONE WAS UNHINGED
Christmas shopping was never supposed to go like this.
It always starts with optimism—dangerous, naïve optimism. The kind where you tell yourself things like “I’ll just run in for a few things” or “It won’t be that crowded this late.” Lies. All of them. Filthy seasonal lies wrapped in tinsel and regret.
It was December 23rd. The worst shopping day known to man. A day historians would later describe as “a collective failure of planning.”
I had a list. A neat list. A hopeful list. It included items like:
- “Nice candle for Aunt Karen”
- “Toy for nephew (NOT loud)”
- “Something thoughtful for Mom”
- “Something cool for Dad”
- “Wrapping paper”
Simple. Manageable. Harmless.
By the end of the night, that list would be soaked in sweat, shame, and hot pretzel grease.
THE PARKING LOT: THE FIRST BATTLE
The parking lot alone felt like a war zone.
Cars circled like vultures. Blinkers flashed aggressively. Grown adults stared down strangers with dead eyes, silently daring them to steal a spot. Somewhere in the distance, a minivan horn blared for a full 45 seconds like a cry for help.
I followed a woman to her car—standard Christmas shopping etiquette. She unlocked it, got in, sat there, and did nothing.
She texted. She adjusted her mirrors. She stared at her phone. I waited.
Five minutes passed.
She looked up, made eye contact with me, and went back to scrolling.
I aged three years standing there.
Eventually, she rolled down her window and yelled, “I’m waiting for my husband!”
Ma’am, this is not a curbside pickup for relationships.
I abandoned the spot and parked so far away I briefly considered packing a lunch.
THE ENTRANCE: WHERE MANNERS GO TO DIE
The moment I walked into the store, I was hit with a wall of heat, noise, and Mariah Carey screaming from the speakers like she was being held hostage.
People shoved carts with wild abandon. Children screamed in pitches that cracked glass. Somewhere, something electronic was beeping nonstop, like a smoke alarm with seasonal depression.
Right at the entrance, a table of ornaments collapsed.
No one stopped.
They just stepped over shattered glass angels like this was normal.
I grabbed a cart. One wheel was broken. I chose it anyway because at this point, we were both damaged.
THE CANDLE AISLE: AROMA OF DESPAIR
Candles seemed like a safe start.
Wrong.
The candle aisle was packed with people smelling things aggressively, lifting lids, huffing scents like they were trying to unlock childhood memories.
A man sniffed a candle labeled “Fireside Cabin” and said out loud, “This smells like my uncle’s divorce.”
A woman dropped a candle, panicked, and tried to pretend it wasn’t her by immediately picking up a different one and walking away briskly.
I grabbed a candle called “Winter Pine Whisper.” It smelled like pine, regret, and chemical lies.
Into the cart it went.
One item down. Confidence rising. Big mistake.
THE TOY SECTION: ABSOLUTE CHAOS
The toy section looked like it had been looted.
Shelves were empty. Boxes were torn open. Kids ran wild, testing toys like feral engineers.
A child rode a display bike directly into a rack of stuffed animals.
Another kid pressed a button on a talking doll and wouldn’t stop pressing it.
“LET’S BE BEST FRIENDS!”
“LET’S BE BEST FRIENDS!”
“LET’S BE BEST FRIENDS!”
The parents were nowhere to be found. Presumably hiding.
I found a toy robot labeled “Quiet Mode Available.”
Lies again.
I pressed the button. The robot screamed, lit up, launched into a dance routine, and began singing a song about friendship at a volume meant to summon wildlife.
Everyone stared at me.
I whispered, “I’m so sorry,” to no one in particular.
Robot into the cart.
THE ELECTRONICS SECTION: FALSE HOPE
I wandered into electronics, thinking maybe I’d find something “cool” for Dad.
Every TV was showing a different channel. Sports, cartoons, news, cooking shows, all shouting at once like a confused bar.
A man argued with an employee about a sale price.
“It said online—”
“We don’t honor that.”
“But I drove here!”
“That’s not our fault.”
They stared at each other, neither blinking.
I slowly backed away and grabbed a pair of headphones that claimed “CRYSTAL CLEAR SOUND.”
Dad would never use them.
Into the cart.
THE WRAPPING PAPER INCIDENT
Wrapping paper was on sale. A dangerous sign.
People were grabbing rolls like it was the last helicopter out of a disaster zone.
I reached for a roll at the same time as an elderly woman. Our hands touched. We froze.
She looked me dead in the eye and said, “I need this more than you.”
She took it.
I respected her honesty.
I grabbed a roll with Santa wearing sunglasses. It felt wrong. It felt inevitable.
THE FOOD COURT BREAKDOWN
I needed fuel.
The food court smelled like fried sugar and despair.
Every table was full. People ate standing up. One man dropped a pretzel and still ate it.
I ordered a hot pretzel and a soda.
The soda machine was out of ice. The pretzel burned my mouth. The cheese sauce exploded onto my shirt like molten shame.
I stared at myself in the reflective napkin dispenser.
This was who I was now.
THE CHECKOUT LINE: FINAL BOSS
The checkout line stretched into the horizon.
A woman ahead of me argued about a coupon from 2014.
A kid screamed because his balloon touched the ceiling.
Someone’s card declined three times.
The cashier looked like they had seen things.
When it was my turn, the robot toy activated again.
“LET’S BE BEST FRIENDS!”
The cashier sighed deeply.
“That thing’s haunted,” they said.
I nodded.
They scanned my items. The candle rang up twice.
I didn’t care.
I paid. I escaped.
THE PARKING LOT, AGAIN
It was snowing now. Of course it was.
I loaded my bags, slipped on ice, didn’t fall, but did perform a humiliating dance move I’ll never emotionally recover from.
I sat in my car, breathing heavily, staring at my purchases.
None of them were good.
All of them were expensive.
Christmas shopping was complete.
EPILOGUE: CHRISTMAS MORNING
Aunt Karen loved the candle.
The robot toy screamed nonstop.
Dad asked for the receipt.
Mom said, “You didn’t need to get me anything.”
The wrapping paper ripped immediately.
It was perfect.
Christmas shopping is not about gifts.
It’s about survival.
And somehow… we all lived.
