Season’s Greetings everyone.  It is I, Nick, writing you from the comfort my couch, on my brand new, refurbished, vintage typewriter.  If this letter smells fishy, it is because I am using eco-friendly ink, sustainably sourced from an octopus ink milking farm in Boring, Oregon.  I am told the octopus that gifted me its ink is named Harold.  She enjoys camouflage, eating fish, and nontraditional naming conventions. 

Button is sitting next to me, wearing this year’s Gucci Cat Sweater of the Year.  It’s made of post-consumer gorilla fur and clean-coal.  We’re still waiting on her pair of non-ironic-70’s-non-perscription-glasses to come in.  They’ve been custom fit to her face and temperament.   

This year has been satisfactory.  We acquired a holiday tree of adequate height.  We decided to go with a single ornament, so as to not flaunt our wealth.  We do not call it a Christmas tree, because that would be insensitive to all of the other traditions.  Holiday is more inclusive.  We thought about purchasing decorations of every winter holiday, but then we’d be buying into the evil, commercial-consumerist society that is ravaging this earth.  Also, funds were a little tight. 

I have started to apply for Graduate Programs in Creative Writing.  Not because I want to learn anything, but because I feel this will round off the look I’m going for.  I call it the 10’s-of-thousands-of-dollars-of-crippling-debt-and-yet-paying-seven-dollars-for-coffee-and-maintaining-a-WordPress-blog-I-made-afterusing-an-NPR-discount-code look.  My only complaint is that the coffee shops I go to have outlets for plugs, but no oil for my typewriter Margin lever and Platen clutch release disc.  Even if they did, I bet they’d use some corporate company like WD-40 (WD-40 has no effect on these particular parts.  That was a joke.).  I source mine from a sustainably harvested adolescent oils farm called Teenage Angst in Yreka, California.  They siphon oil out of greasy teenage hair.  It is nice to know there are teenagers that are finally becoming productive members of society.   I am told the teenager—who fly-fishes in full hunting garb—that donated their hair oil is named Carl.  She enjoys camouflage, eating fish, and nontraditional naming conventions. 

If you are looking to buy me or Button gifts, please first think of the poor, the incapable, the downtrodden and meek.  After you are done thinking of them, it is then appropriate to buy things for me.  Remember: raising awareness about something is basically the same thing as doing something.  Button and I are looking for matching turtlenecks, mustache combs, or permanent temporary tattoos.  I have a collection of berets that is always looking for expansions. Button is currently looking for V-neck t-shirts for her hipster cat club.  You probably haven’t heard of it. 

This is the portion of the letter where it is customary from me to tell everyone to, “Have a Happy Holiday!”  I do not wish to impose any emotions or feelings upon you, as that would be further extending the demeaning society that pushes definition standards and begets the commercial criminality of holidays.  So instead I will wish you a completely neutral statement about the season: 

Should one desire, it is an option for one to spend the season in whatever capacity deems appropriate to one’s current mood, socioeconomic status and religious affiliation. 

Thank you, 

Nick + Button