It’s that time of the year again where the thought counts more than the gift itself… or something like it, so I become the unwilling recipient of scented candles, mugs, and picture frames.  See, it’s not that difficult to get me a gift.  If the store sells alcohol and cigarettes, then you can find a perfectly good gift that you can give me for Christmas.

Yet no matter how much I emphasize the “you-can-make-me-happy-with-vice” motto, nobody gets me a ream of cigarettes or a bottle of whiskey for the holidays.  All I ever really wanted for Christmas was something for me to smoke and something for me to drink, but some people insist on playing through my “mysteriousness” and “intellect.”

Last Christmas, I got copies of “The Purpose-Driven Life,” “Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul,” two copies of “The Alchemist,” and a paperback version of “How to Win Friends and Influence People.”  After talking to my givers who seemed to not have a problem with what I was going to do, I promptly re-gifted the gifts.  Potlatched, so to speak, revolving round the Kula ring.

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