First annual imaginary Christmas letter

Dear lucky members of my first annual Imaginary Christmas Letter Family,

Welcome to the family! And aren’t you lucky? Congratulations on me loving you the most. Others, who don’t know they’re not loved, are getting Microsoft Zunes from me this year instead. Suckers! Those things will bring you nothing but grief on the resale market. While you get this, an imaginary Christmas letter signed with my automatic long-distance pen, which was invented by the novelist Margaret Atwood because she had too many fans. Boy, can I relate! Popularity and a free press are the banes of my existence. Also tight socks that cut off the circulation to my toes. I know: right now some of you are probably thinking back it up, I’d rather have one of those groovy pens, but don’t be crazy. They are useful only for famous book and imaginary letter signing. Trust me, this will all go down easier if you remember where you sit in the scheme of things.

Anyway, on to importance! This was the year I quit my job, moved to New York City (go Knicks!), started a new job, quit a new job, started an old job, and decided to quit my old job and move to Los Angeles to become a sitcom writer, a profession I am almost singularly unqualified to pursue and at which I am almost positively guaranteed to fail. Yes, my parents prefer this to stability and grandchildren. And yes, life is full of glamour and endless excitement when you are blindfolded to “reality” and both drunk and overcaffeinated 96% of the time. I learned that from Britney, who not coincidentally is at the top of my imaginary Christmas letter recipient list.

Other things that happened this year: I invented air and did not meet Jesus, or George Clooney, or even my next-door neighbor. The lady who lives two floors below me did say hello in the hallway once, or maybe it was just “Move your ass, I need to get through here.” Whatever, at least I can say I made a friend in New York City! This town will miss me when I go.

My favorite thing that I bought this year was a new pair of Birkenstocks, which I wear to the opera and everywhere with a white fur hat. Don’t worry, it’s not real fur; I think it’s made from rabbit. Anyway, the important thing is my sandals are almost comfortable enough to make up for those tight socks! They are green. Forest green, with sparkles. We’re pretty happy together, if you couldn’t tell, but maybe you read about us in the New York Times, which is made right here in New York City. The part about that trip we took to Brussels last July, when we stopped for a pedicure at that cute little nail spa on the Zenne? (Remember? We chose Lincoln Park After Dark by OPI.) That actually happened. Gosh it was something. I wish I could show you photos, but my feet in those sandals with that polish? OMG, NSFW!

Also on my imaginary Christmas letter recipient list: Posh Spice, Billy Bush, Elvis Presley, Brody Jenner, John Mayer, the Jolie-Pitts, Charlene Tilton, and Oprah. Wait, is Billy Bush a person? Or some magical enchanted forest creature? Oh, and also that weird kid who cried for Britney to be left alone. I think he lives in somebody’s basement, so my imaginary Christmas letter will bring him joy. Too bad you can’t package rainbows!

Oh dear. What you’re thinking now is who’s going to let you out of the asylum in time to get to LA next spring? It’s okay, the bars are wide. I can squeeze through.

So that’s it. Merry Christmas, y’all, and to all of your all, always.

Love, peace, and Lemon out —

P.S.: Although you are approved recipients and trusted members of my imaginary Christmas letter family, this imaginary Christmas letter is not to be reprinted or reproduced in any format until I am A) dead or B) famous. And if both of those things should happen to occur simultaneously, wow! Remember to fax me. I will totally fax back.

P.S.X. And just think how much fun this letter will be next year, when I’m unemployed and inviting myself to live in your gardens! Stay tuned.