It’s Christmas, so I’m already bitter. We don’t have a tree. We have the movies. We don’t have presents, we have Chinese food.

But not today. No, today I’m even more bitter. Today I wake up with my throat caked in white mossy, swollen, lava-red strep. Paired with a fever of 103, my mother decides to find me a doctor.

Except there are no doctors on Christmas.

Which is funny, because last time I checked there were Jewish doctors.

No, not in upstate New York. Not in Dutchess County. Here, I am forced to wrap myself in blankets, and sweat-shiver and my fever dips to a stellar 101 on ibuprofen and I’m spitting saliva into a cup because I refuse to swallow anything at delirious, actually crazy, and singing about Toyota, which is fairly indicative of my distain for the American car industry.

Hey assholes, germs don’t give a shit when Jesus was “born” and neither do I.


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