This year, my Christmas card isn’t going to read “I’ll be home for Christmas.” It’s going to read:
Not down the interstate. Down into the ground.
And no, that’s not a typo. It’s a survival strategy. The phrase hit me on February 23, 2024—eight minutes before something (a deadline? a breakdown? a bad decision to watch a rom-com alone?) I was scrolling old lyric mashups when my brain autocorrected “home” to “hole.” Suddenly, Bing Crosby was crooning from a dirt-walled bunker, and I thought: Yes. That’s the vibe.