I don't remember ever having a real Christmas tree. I know that it happened during the first years of my life, but only because of photographic evidence.
(And actually, one of my absolute FAVORITE Christmas pictures is of my brother, as a toddler, attempting to blow out the twinkly lights on the tree. Man, I need to get a scan of that.)
Turns out, my dad was insanely allergic to the pine tree, and December became pretty miserable for him, so we eventually got an artificial tree. They're easier, cleaner, nicer to the environment, and you don't have to worry about discarding a once-living thing on the curb.
My artificial tree set me back $12.76 at Walmart (of all places), including three strands of lights. It was the third and final time I had set foot in that place (the first was in Ohio during a four-day event of true horror and the second was with my friend Shane to purchase Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix which, of course, was totally worth the trip even though the store made me very, very depressed), and it's lasted for years.
On my way to the bus stop the other day, I was reminded of my ingenious purchase, and why I have held onto it as I moved from apartment to apartment, state to state.
Oh the poor tree! It is so sad and dejected, discarded on the dirty snow. But wait! What is lying next to it?
Oh, never mind. The poor tree is just a little hungover. Wondering about the location of the automobile. "AUGHT-OH-MO-BEEL?" Am I right? Guys?