This is my real address book. It is not a joke.
It’s left over from 10 years ago from my baby shower invite list. It’s evolved over time as people have moved and/or died and/or turned into assholes or whatever, but here it is in all it’s glory.
The list lives in a drawer full of other junk I have no idea about and gets smooshed, crunched, ,moved and mashed all year until it’s Christmas time again and I am forced to face it for real to get the cards done.
If you don’t get a card from me, it’s probably because my address book is a pile of ripped up papers. Please, take no offence.
It’s not you, it’s me.
Organizing this is not really high on my list of priorities, ya know? It just makes Christmas card sending a real buttfuck of a task, but it’s the only time I think about it, so does it matter that it looks like this?
Mister is the most disorganized person in the universe and even he judges me for it, so it must be really terrible. I’m failing to see the major impact this has on my life, so I make only the most feeble attempts at organizing it. Last year, I put a clip on it to keep it all together. That was progress the list had not seen since about March of 2005. Maybe this year I’ll put it in an envelope?
No I won’t.
Don’t anybody suggest sitting and typing them all in because that is a hilarious.
I have a genius system where, if somebody moves, I rip the return addresses off of the envelope and put it in the clip on top of the messy pile. Sometimes I just keep the whole envelope because I’m too lazy to rip the new address off. Maybe I cross off the old address, maybe I don’t. It’s exactly like Christmas card roulette, and I’m ok with it because I like my cards to go on an adventure. See the old house, perhaps get forwarded to the new place. Maybe make some friends on the road?
That sort of thing.
So yeah. If you get a card from us this year, you’d better shit your dick because you are one lucky and special motherfucker (who has probably not moved in ten years.)
Merry Christmas (maybe).