I currently sit at the kitchen table, staring at a Christmas tree and a decoration consisting of marzipan snowmen that we made long ago. Various members of my family (i.e. everyone except for my dad) are choosing perfumes, applying mascara and, ahem, probably raiding the sweaters of my closet. I sit alone wrapped in a blanket and, as of five minutes ago, am attracting all the household cats. Glorious. I am a teenage social recluse.
This year I am, so far grudgingly, trying to finish college applications before Christmas, as are many friends. I have missed my usual enthusiasm concerning the days leading up to Christmas. So far on my part there has been minimal cookie-making, minimal decorating, and no drive-by past the insane Christmas light house on Quinientos Street. There was one attempted gingerbread house, but I am sorry to say it failed miserably: The gingerbread pieces were shattered and couldn’t even be fixed with a pound of icing, though I tried.
To give you an image, I locked myself in my room, which was until a few days ago too disgusting (due to massive heaps of clothes) to spend five minutes in, and tried to force myself to write essays. I would rather write them than not, obviously, because it gives me a chance to better explain myself to schools. However, my strain of procrastination syndrome prevented me: What exactly was I doing in front of the computer?