Alright, I'm a tacky Christmas sweater. I have a completely awful, terrible, dreadful existence because I'm only appreciated at one moment in each dreadful year.
People say they like me, but secretly they make fun of me behind my back because of my garish details. I can't help it - I was born this way. My life is a sequence of horrid events, starting with the birth in a dirty manufacturing plant and ending with a doomed existence in a stinky Goodwill. I am created only to be tossed from mother to daughter to thrift store to hipster teenager back to thrift store.
People say they love me, but secretly they just keep me because I'm tacky enough to wear at a party and outshine all of the other sweaters. I don't even get to experience diversity in my lifetime; the only people that accept me for who I am are the Christians and cultural appropriators. If you think that's awful, it just gets worse. I only get to experience the cold, harsh winters where people stuff me under thick holiday jackets as they make their way to friends' houses for cider and cookies. I'm only exposed in the warmth of a upper-middle-class suburban household.
People point, touch, poke, and laugh at me. I can't help that my beaded Santa is unbalanced by the bright green Christmas tree. The threading on my puffy Santa tummy is coming undone and people can't even be bothered to stitch me up. They just replace me with a newer sweater and doom me to a life of moth ball companion, and I consider that super jank because even moths don't want me.
This is a hard life, and people don't even give me credit for it. I sometimes even have to support 3D Christmas lights on my body. Can I not have mercy? Seriously, this tacky existence gets old after a while.
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