The dirt under my knuckles is that last leftover I have from
helping out with a wheelbarrow full of hashbrowns this morning.


I can't butcher a hog, but I hauled in the cases of Coke, and bread, and extra chairs, and also managed to scramble every egg we had on hand.

And then I pretended I didn't care after I tore through my backstock of bacon, afraid of making my aunties sick because they're thick to stay home one winter in their ******* lives.

I don't want anyone to die.

But I know that they do.

And I guarantee you the last thing you want to say when you get to heaven is that youre dead because you couldn't get enough of your ****** nephews disgusting Christmas stew.