Bounty.

Every goddamned christmas, my mother goes to Costco, buys a month worth of groceries, and wraps them up and puts them under the tree. When you're eight, it's kinda funny. When you're fifteen, you don't want to tear into a box expecting an laptop and find an entire frozen turkey, leaking juice out of its frozen turkey ass.

I know its supposed to be significant because my mom gets all misty, and I fake it, and hug her, and tell her that I love my 50 oz jar of raspberry preserves, really. But she's been doing it for so long, ever since the year that Dad got laid off and they had to pawn off all the kitchen appliances to pay my brother's tuition. Yes: I remember sitting in that yawning space where the oven used to be, playing with those dead wires coursing out of the wall, limp and yellow, and that was kind of sad, I guess. But I was six, and I was into the Brave Little Toaster. I thought coffee machines had significant inner feelings.

Now, I don't anymore. Now, Dad works for Google. Now, I don't want a brick of Guyere in a bag shaped like Santa Claus' face, and I don't want Mom to make us eat it all on the living room carpet like we're hobos who've never seen an industrial-sized tank of cheese puffs in their entire lives, and I don't want her to videotape it, sobbing.