Oh, Justin. You silly sweet boy. It is my dubious honor to present to you…SantaCon. It’s that special time every December when everyone must choose their side. You must either don a red and white suit and rush headlong out into the streets to join your drunken compatriots, or you must pull your sleeping cap down below your ears and stay nestled snug in bed in the warmth and safety of your home. There is no middle ground — if you go outside, you have made your decision. I’m a member of the second camp. I stay in my apartment, away from the windows, and wait for the worst of it to blow over. I treat it like the drunken hurricane that it is. But Justin doesn’t know any better. He wants to be out in it next year. You silly Mr. Jessica. I used to be just like you. The first time I ever heard about SantaCon, it sounded like a glorious adventure. “A pub-crawl through Lower Manhattan dressed up as Santa Claus? I love it!” (And that feeling lasted for a whole five seconds until…) “Who’s doing it? Oh, every SINGLE person in Manhattan? No thanks!” That’s what’s so endearingly Grinch-y about me: I’m on board for anything…as long as no one else is on board. A Christmas-themed pub crawl? How unique and fun! With every frat boy in the city who’s been drunk since 9am? I’d rather eat my own teeth!
You see, there are only a few people in this cold, cruel world whom I truly enjoy, and none of them are tear-stained slutty reindeer, vomming elves, or belligerent Santas. They don’t spill their drink down my back, or accidentally set me on fire with their cigarette, or pass out in my chimney.
Unless of course they happen to be Justin Timberlake. In which case I think I could make an exception.
(Image: Lia Toby / WENN)