The Girl in Pajamas

Christmas 2025 arrives like a glitter cannon fired into a burning library.

Seated on my green bouclé sofa, which fits the whole of my anatomy in staff pose, I contemplate the perpetual washing cycle of people who orbit my largely uneventful life.

Meet Group A. Default mode: pessimistic. Style: cautious. Energy efficiency comes from trusting absolutely no one. Examples include my parents, my landlord, and the insurance company.

Then there’s Group B. Default mode: overly optimistic, nauseatingly so. Style: sweet as candy and smooth as butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth. Energy efficiency comes from loving everyone with overzealous flair, then gossiping behind their backs because they are “different.” Examples include my ex in-laws, overenthusiastic work colleagues, and online tarot card readers.

Here’s the rub. Both groups have the same superpower: halving my energy reserves with a single interaction.

And don’t get me started on the Christmas enthusiasts. Seriously. There are, officially, two wars going on globally. The economy is curdling. Unemployment and poverty are chewing through people’s lives. But no. Don’t let that stop you from buying cheap $20 Christmas décor for Kris Kringle that I will never use. Don’t let that stop you from going all out on your meat-and-dessert cravings for potluck, because God forbid the vegetarians and fitness freaks get something edible. And certainly don’t let that stop you from buying two dozen more half-priced tuna cans because what if the world ends tomorrow and we have no emergency protein.

And who am I, you ask?

I am the all-seeing oracle. The neutral underdog. The forced cynic with self-awareness so sharp it could cut through your counterfeit Gucci leather purse twice over, and still not be able to move an inch from my self-imposed apathy exile.

I come. I see. And for the peace of my mind, I do nothing.