I'm not writing about Christmas this year. Even though we're in winter (for northern Earth dwellers, mostly), I can’t go out past six without wearing sunglasses. What’s with the little lights, people? Are streetlights suddenly not enough?

You might think, “Hey, come on, don’t be a sourpuss. It’s nice.”

Yeah, it’s nice, but the spirit of Christmas is supposed to begin in December —maybe November for some Americans because of the whole Thanksgiving thing— but I've been noticing hints since October! That spoils the real magic.

Let me explain: summer is long. Winter feels even longer, but Christmas is —or should be— short. Why? Because it actually begins on Christmas Eve, not when you're still wearing flip-flops.

And what is all this for? The answer is money — Benjamins, dough, guap, whatever you want to call it. They deceive us, drive us crazy by bombarding our psychos with glitter and red bows.

—It's "psyches," lady. "Psychos" is something totally different.

— Okay, "psychos," "psyches," whatever. We're hopelessly ambushed. That's why I won't write about Christmas this year.

— Of course you won't. You just did.

Text-to-speech version: https://voca.ro/1icfyhYZjJcE

Text-to-song version: https://voca.ro/1i4rAdEPGmHT