With a houseful of women, the first thing he’d do is knock on my bedroom door and ask if I were decent. I was a bitchy teenager so I’d say, “What?” instead of saying, “Come in.”
But that’s the funny thing about memories. I don’t know if I celebrated with my family that year, or if I was excused to go eat dinner at my boyfriend’s house.
Christmas for me is as stale as a refrigerated container of chicken-fried rice.
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