I’m about to Norman Rockwell the shit out of this day right here, and not a single one of you raggedyass bitches is gonna stop me. Not even the ones I grew from scratch in my own body; the younger of whom is flipping off the older angrily in the back seat of the car for no reason on the way to Lake Instagram-Ready Christmas Card Perfection.
See, I fuck with Norman Rockwell, and so do you, because this is 'MURICA!. Norman Rockwell invented stunting for the 'Gram. Hell, he was stunting for the 'Gram before there even WAS stunting OR the 'Gram!
Granted, I spent Christmas Day mired in a bottomless depression, despite everything being objectively fine. So now it's time to stop feeling sorry for myself and low key turn this sunny winter's-day-after-Christmas into a fucking jovial, early twentieth century real-life painting of post-war Americana at its world-dominating, self-satisfied best!
And just like the hard-working, red-blooded American men and women pictured in Rockwell's best known works, I will fight!
I will fight through every last moan, groan, whine, and cry about how it's too cold and my skates are too big and now they're too small and my sleeve is rolled up in a weird position in my jacket and my sock is too tight around my ankle and this is boring and I didn't eat enough breakfast and Isaac stole my hat and Paige hit me with her gloves and I have to pee and I can't get my boot off and I'm too cold and now I'm too hot and when can we leave and how long have we been here and there's a frozen booger in my nose.
I will fight through all of that until EVERYONE IS GOOD AND FUCKING HAPPY BECAUSE THIS IS FUN GODDAMMIT!
For as I said, I am determined to manufacture a tableau that could literally have been plucked from the pages of the Saturday Night Post, and everyone in this family is being conscripted into my project.
Fuck the 'Gram. The results, as you can see, are museum-worthy.