My Christmas shopping is finished, and like a smug prick, I’m now going on the internet to tell everyone about it.

But unlike those other pricks, I’m not going to gloat about getting everything done in a responsible manner, nor will I sum it up by referring to my actions as “adulting” like the rest of those unoriginal hacks. Adulting is the dumbest, most overused thing we millennials say, other than squinting our eyes and saying, “suh, dude.”

God, I hate all of you. I almost don’t want Vine to rise from the ashes as V2 because I know you dummies are going to ruin it with your incessant need to repeat classic vines at every opportunity. Around this time of year, everyone is wishing me a Happy Chrysler.

Anyway. Instead of riding the “adulting” train, I’m going to call out the notion that technology is slowly ruining us. On the contrary. Technology, such as online shopping, is the best thing we as a species have ever created.

I finished my Christmas shopping in an hour; 30 minutes if I didn’t accidentally fall into a YouTube rabbit hole of parkour people flying face-first into concrete doom. An hour in my home, in my attire (a groutfit), and eating my own food that didn’t cost $100 because the mall economy is atrocious.

This is a staunchly different experience than when I was in high school, when my brothers and I would cram into a 2001 Mercury Sable and cruise down to the mall at 8 p.m. on Dec. 23. That car ride served as a think tank for gift ideas for our parents and our respective Secret Santas. Most years, the think tank would come up with a lotion/make-up basket for mom, a Lowe’s gift card for dad, and then we would tell each other our Secret Santa and basically designate our own gift.

“You have me? Just get me a gift card, I don’t care.”

Ah, Christmas. It’s like Thanksgiving, except more of a hassle.

Okay, but we can agree that we need to get back to doing everything in person and communicating with one another face-to-face.

I’d rather die.

Without online shopping I’d be forced to buy Christmas presents in-person, which is akin to embarking the Oregon Trail. Did I die from dysentery? No, I died by leaping off the second floor into a hover-board kiosk.

It takes 30 minutes alone to find a parking space in bumper-to-bumper traffic, and then you have to pretend to be on the phone or deaf when walking past the Salvation Army bellringer.

I don’t know any sign language, other than the universal sign of “I don’t have money to give you” which is holding up a middle finger straight into the air.

Then you have to find a gift for the people God forced upon you in life, which usually takes two hours at the earliest because the mall is a maze full of useless stores and a horde of mouth-breathers blocking traffic.  

Family is where I draw the line for gifts, by the way. I don’t get gifts for any of my friends. I don’t get gifts for coworkers. I certainly don’t get a gift for the mailman. He delivers my mail, which is his job. I’m supposed to give him a gift card for that? His gift is the gift of being employed so go ahead and miss me with that “but it’s the holidays” nonsense.

Frustrated, I normally just get everyone in my family novelty barbecue baskets because that’s the only store that isn’t packed like a sardine can.

“Would you like to add a special note or individually wrap these in our special paper?”

“I would like all of these to be thrown in the largest trash bag you have, please.”

Then, I make my way out of the mall thinking I made good time. I got here at 9 a.m., so a few hours later should put me at oh my God it’s nightfall.

I’m never going back to that life. I’m never going through another Christmas where I have to drive to the a less-effective, in-person, worse version of the internet. I’m going to order all of my Christmas barbecue baskets online and wish for all malls and their respective kiosks to die slow, painful deaths.

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