Happy Holidays, you magnificent neurological disasters!

December has arrived like an unwelcome relative: loud, expensive, and demanding. We pretend everything's fine while our nervous systems buckin and snortin like a Brahma bull.

Normal people stress about finding the perfect gift. We're wonder whether grocery shopping uses up our standing-upright budget for the week, or if we're saving those precious vertical minutes for the family gathering where Aunt Karen suggests we drink more water (again).

Let's discuss what Christmas ACTUALLY looks like when your body has the structural integrity of a gingerbread house in a Texas hurricane.

On the first day of Christmas, my neurons gave to me: A symptom flare in a parking lot

On the second day of Christmas, my neurons gave to me: Two relatives with unsolicited advice And a symptom flare in a parking lot

On the third day of Christmas, my neurons gave to me: Three doctors ghosting my refill requests Two relatives with cure suggestions And a symptom flare in a parking lot

On the fourth day of Christmas, my neurons gave to me: Four cousins selling essential oils Three doctors in witness protection Two "helpful" suggestions And a symptom flare in a parking lot

On the fifth day of Christmas, my neurons gave to me: FIVE! INSURANCE! DENIIIIIALS! Four MLM sales pitches Three missing physicians Two terrible suggestions And we're STILL IN THE PARKING LOT

(Stopping here because we forgot what's next and our hands cramped.)

What Pinterest Promised: Measure precisely. Cut straight. Fold perfectly. Add elegant bow. Instagram it.

What Actually Happened:

Texas Pro Tip: Hand everyone a gift card. If they complain, remind them you're a limited edition with significant manufacturing defects.

ACT I: THE ARRIVAL

You circle the lot like a neurological vulture. Third lap, you spot someone loading groceries. JACKPOT.

You signal. This is YOUR spot. You've claimed it.

You wait.

They're moving slower than evolution. They're rearranging bags. Having an existential crisis. You're having a SYMPTOM watching them.

They FINALLY get in. They sit there. Are they texting? Praying? Writing memoirs?

They back out at continental drift speed.

You move forward—

A CAR APPEARS FROM THE VOID AND STEALS YOUR SPOT.

Options: Find another spot (your legs have filed a restraining order against walking), go full Texas and park there anyway, or go home and order everything online forever.

You choose online. But you already drove here. Sunk cost fallacy activated.

ACT II: THE WALK

You parked in the spot that's technically in the same county as the store. Maybe.

Quarter-mile walk. Your body files a formal OSHA complaint.

Halfway there, you've forgotten why you came. Medicine? Groceries? Your own name?

You stand in the parking lot like an NPC whose programming broke.

ACT III: THE RETURN

You survived shopping. Barely. You bought things. One is definitely a rotisserie chicken you don't remember getting.

Now: LOCATE VEHICLE.

Hit key fob. Nothing. Walk in random direction. Hit fob 47 times. Your car is in witness protection.

You wander like a lost sheep. Finally hear it beep. It's exactly where you parked it. In the disabled spot. Like a reasonable person.

You sit in your car for 20 minutes because existing is cardio.

The chicken judges you.

"You look GREAT!"
Translation: "I forgot you have a medical condition. Currently panicking."

"Can you eat this?"
Translation: "I can't remember if you have the gluten thing, dairy thing, or stomach-quit-working thing."

"You're so BRAVE!"
Translation: "I'm uncomfortable and out of words."

"Must be nice not working during the holidays!"
Translation: "I've decided disability is a vacation."

"Can you pass the potatoes?"

[Hand tremors activate]
[Mashed potatoes achieve liftoff]
[Gravy boat becomes fountain]
[Dinner rolls take flight]
[Grandmother screams]
[Dog appears from nowhere]
[Dog is in heaven]
[You're banned from passing anything]

Translation: Dinner just became an action movie.

AUNT CAROL: "How have you been?"

YOU: "The usu—"

YOUR BODY: "SHOWTIME!"

[Water glass tips, cascades like Niagara]
[Dog materializes, drinks from table]
[Uncle comments on "nervous energy"]

YOU: "...the usual."

COUSIN WITH MLM: "I have something that might—"

YOU: "No. I have a neurologist. They went to medical school. You watched a video."

GRANDMOTHER: "No need to be RUDE!"

YOU: "You're right. I apologize. How much is it?"

COUSIN: [Pulls out iPad]

YOU: [Stands] "I'm tired. I'm going home. Merry Christmas. I'm taking this pie."

[EXIT, pursued by relatives suggesting meditation]

🎄 Merry Christmas from Rarely Serious 🎄

May your symptoms be mild, your parking spots close, and your relatives keep their medical advice to themselves.

Stay rare, stay ridiculous

Disclaimer: We're not doctors or people with our lives together. We're surviving the holidays with bodies that have the structural integrity of a gingerbread house in a rainstorm. Consult actual medical professionals for actual medical advice.