If you can’t gift me happiness, give me tequila instead

In the past, my Christmas wishlists were miles long and filled with one item after another that I wanted. This year, it was a fairly short list. Maybe I’m getting older. Maybe I’m realizing that material things just weigh me down. Maybe I realize that I’m moving in a year and a half and I don’t want to have to pack all of that stuff up and haul it to yet another apartment.

Books are always a great present. But books are heavy. Allow me to reference you back to my aforementioned comment about moving again in a year and a half. I love books. Lately though, I’ve barely made time to read the mountains of books that I already own, much less discover new series. I’ve fallen in love with my library. I can check out books, read them, and return them when I’m done. And sometimes I’ll love a series enough to want to own it.

That’s becoming more of a rarity, though.

I suppose there is one material possession that I wouldn’t mind receiving. I would like an e-reader. Part of me clings to paperbound books like a bad habit. Or a good habit. I love the feel of turning pages. I love the smell of books. But books are heavy. They’re a pain in the ass to move and they take up an entire wall once they’re shelved. But mainly they’re heavy. Still. As much as an e-reader would be nice, I haven’t completely been convinced it’s what I want.

What I want for Christmas more than anything is to figure out what I want out of life. I want some miracle pill that will grant me eternal happiness. I want my fairytale happily-ever-after. I just don’t particularly want to do all the work to get there. I want Prince Not-Completely Charming to sweep me off my feet. But that all happens in books. So, I guess… if you want to get me something for Christmas, get me a book that I can sink my teeth into. Get me a book that I can delve into to escape the questions that real life brings.

Or a bottle of tequila. Or vodka. Or rum. I’m really not all that picky.

And if you’re my friend… you probably know what you’re going to get from me for Christmas. Or shortly after Christmas in this case. Lots and lots of drunken text messages. And maybe, possibly, a book. (For some of you, that book will be a dictionary).

At the age of six, Eliza was certain of two things. The first was that she had stories to tell. The second was that she had no talent for illustrating them herself. Talent or no, she still wrote and illustrated her first book, one that should be located and locked away if only to prevent her parents from embarrassing her terribly by showing it off alongside baby pictures. Now she spends her days writing stories that she isn't embarrassed to show off after a little bit of polishing.

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