Descend into Xmas Chaos. The joy arrives pre-packaged in neon lights, the cheer auto-tuned to maximum sarcasm. Snow falls in frantic digital flakes, each one carrying a tiny invoice for happiness. Santa’s list has been replaced by a glitchy meter, naughty and nice reduced to two flickering LEDs. The eggnog tolerance climbs on its own, no permission asked, no liver consulted. Presents vibrate in their boxes, already half-broken, half-stolen, wrapped in ribbons that strangle the last honest wish. Grinch Mode isn’t a choice anymore; it’s the default setting, factory-sealed. Holiday spirit spins the dial to empty, yet the room keeps overheating with forced laughter. Ugly sweaters stretch across skeletons, itchy, loud, impossible to remove. The tree leans like it’s drunk on ornament overload, every bulb a tiny surveillance camera recording who pretended to be happy and who actually felt something for three seconds. Somewhere inside the chest cavity of the season a single red button pulses: “Merry Mayhem – ON/OFF.” It has forgotten which is which. And above the wreckage, a cracked voice from another century rips through the speakers one last time: It’s Tiiimeeee. Not for peace, not for silence, but for the glorious, ridiculous, beautifully broken chaos we keep coming back to every single December.