I can say with no amount of uncertainty that expecting someone else to read my mind and know what I want for Christmas is a crapshoot at best. I don’t give hints, I hate asking for things, and everything on my wish list costs an arm and a leg. Seriously, between firearms, musical equipment and anything and everything automotive my heart could possibly desire, the only way to support my wants list would be to move to Florida, change my first name to Pablo and start a charter airline service. It is what it is. But that doesn’t mean that I haven’t been busy sending a bunch of “gifts” to my house with “from Santa” on the tag. Hey, they’re from Santa, aren’t they? Why am I in trouble?!

And I know I’m not the only one who has treated themselves this year, am I? I highly doubt it. Saint Nick is worse about gifts than anyone else. I ask for a Hemi-powered GTX and that cookie-munching cosplaying wizard leaves me two packs of socks and an ear hair trimmer. Come on, you freaking home invader. You can do better. Or, maybe not. So until the day that dream machine is in my driveway with a ribbon on the hood, we’ll just take our chances and get what we want instead.

I’m not giving away my gifts to myself just yet. But have you hooked yourself up?