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You ever notice December turns parking lots into psychological experiments? I’m sitting here, calm, zen, practically levitating in my car seat. I’ve accepted the chaos. I’ve surrendered to the fact that I’ll never find a spot closer than the moon. I’m fine. I’ve got coffee, I’ve got patience, I’ve got holiday music reminding me that Mariah Carey owns my soul.
Then — bam — some lunatic pulls up beside me, veins popping, screaming like I stole their parking destiny. They’re red-faced, gripping the wheel like it’s a lifeline, shrieking about how they’ve been circling for an hour. An hour! Buddy, I’ve been circling since last Christmas. I live here now. This is my home. .
And the best part? Their rage doesn’t move me. I just smile, wave, and let them combust. Because December isn’t about peace on Earth. It’s about watching strangers lose their minds over asphalt squares while you sit back, sip your latte, and think: This is the true holiday spirit.