There’s something magical about this time of year. The air is crisp with cold and possibility as we huddle inside with the people we care most about.
Parents who cut extra-loose, with stories about after-partying in the ’70s told louder and more insistently following every downed cocktail and emptied bottle of red wine. Your aunt with an over-flowing glass of scotch who travels a few miles past sobriety and reminisces about the pants you wore at nineteen that were so baggy they threatened to expose your nether regions. The underage cousin you sneak a few hundred too many Jack swigs to, whose bedroom floor later feels the wrath of your indiscretion. The overage cousin you do shots of the Goldschlager you hid beneath your bed during high school with—insisting that you still fucking love this stuff and swearing that the bottle wasn’t, in fact, first opened over a decade ago. Even the older, unrelated gentleman who everyone likes but no one remembers inviting, who passes while out standing up and must be carried to a couch to sleep it off.
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