Gather round, my Hillians. Cup a cup of cocoa in both of your hands. No, both of them. Like I said. Make sure the marshmallows float lazily. Poke them if they don’t. Sit near a window. If there’s snow outside, gaze at in comfortable superiority. Get toasty. Get homey in the most First-World, Midwestern way possible. Because I’m about to squeeze out one of those annual holiday letters that recounts the year we just endured, replete with the past family tediums that no one asked to read about. Yeah, you know them–those narcissistic letters that are impossible to read because your eyes keep rolling. Those ones. They’re always written in the 3rd person even though you know exactly who wrote them. The one crazed person who desperately wants to project THE PERFECT LIFE, reflecting on the year in fraudulently positive ways as their personal demons close in and the wine glass empties. These letters usually accompany a professionally shot family photo that would have been just fine all on its own. Jill never lets me send out these letters. GODDAMN I hate these letters. So here’s ours.