May your holidays be filled with so much gravy, eggnog, cake and chocolate that you wake up on Boxing Day feeling like the bloated receptacle of hardening fats you are and slowly come to regret the decisions of your life as you stand, naked, and examine the saddened reflection in the bathroom mirror and realize the sugarplum that danced in your head while you slept was actually a product of your subconscious trying to warn you that your ass has grown and the hair on your shoulders appears to be greying.
Warmest of touches all over,
— D’Artagnan
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