It’s come. It’s finally come. All of your sister’s begging and pleading has won. The candy canes and Christmas music – curse you, Bing Crosby! – have seeped into every corner of your life, and there is no escaping the horror I have laid out for you.
I am your gingerbread house.
And I am angry.
I could have done so much more. I could have been a gingerbread person – a worthy work of art to be enjoyed by holiday lovers everywhere – but no. No, the world is a cruel place, and I ended up being packed into a pre-made 4-house set that your grubby fingers will construct to your black heart’s desire. You won’t even have mercy enough to eat me and put me out of my misery. I will end up in your trashcan, just like so many before me. But my time has come. Before I make my final stand, I have a plan.
All the competitors are seated, their sets in front of them, the candy decorations arranged just so on the table. Your sister explains the rules of this futile competition, and so it begins.
You notice that my edges are rounded rather than sharp and flat, but pay it little mind. But this is the first step in winning the war. There is no way that I will hold up for more than thirty minutes, especially not with the meager swath of frosting you carelessly piped on my side. And the more you add, the messier I look.
This is only the start.
Now that you have gotten me upright – finally – the second battle begins: the roof. You could be nice and just cover me with a nice layer of icing. You could even pipe little icicles on me and I wouldn’t mind. But you abuse me. You overestimate the structural integrity of crumbly cookie and decide to pile SIX MINI-MILKYWAYS ON EACH SIDE!
Am I a joke to you?!I can’t take this pressure! To make matters worse, you pipe even more icing in between the roof slats, making an ugly white stripe along the top of me. Oh, the humanity!
Final round: the details. I try dropping the little gumdrops you put on my windows and make a conscious effort to ruin your perfect placement of the chocolate chip road – which, by the way, is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of – but precision prevails. No! What am I to do? My plan has been foiled! The icing is holding up perfectly, everything is tastefully adorned with candy, and you are smiling at your creation. How did this go so wrong?!
It’s over. You call your dad in to judge the houses, and I start to lose hope. But then – yes! An idea! It’s risky, and it may cost me my life, but if I am to die, I will do so on my own terms.
Your dad comes over as you explain how you decorated and what your inspiration was – all benign details. No matter. I wait until the precise moment. He looks closely at me, peering at my M&M bushes, and I give it everything I’ve got.
You wretched fool! You will rue the day you plucked me off the sickeningly bedecked shelves at Walmart. You are no match for me.
It’s all over! It’s done! You have lost! Though I will never see the lights of a Christmas tree again, I will remain in your mind forever more, a haunting memory of your defeat, taunting you every Christmastide until your death.
And I will come back. My childish appeal and tasty-smelling cookie will lure you back every time, and every time I will break your holiday spirit. My brothers and sisters will rise and up and finish what I started. You days will no longer be merry and bright, and in the name of every gingerbread house that has ever been made, we will destroy you.