Here is a funny article for your entertainment. Enjoy!

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The 7 Stages of Gift-Wrapping Grief: A Descent Into Madness

Every year, around the second week of December, a collective delusion washes over the population. We scroll through Instagram and Pinterest, beholding presents wrapped with the architectural precision of a Frank Gehry building. They have dried orange slices tied with twine. They have sprigs of real cedar tucked into velvet ribbons. Their corners are so sharp you could cut a steak with them.

And we think: “Yes. This year, this is who I am. I am an artisanal wrapper.”

We are lying to ourselves.

Wrapping gifts is not a festive craft unless you possess a PhD in engineering. You also need the patience of a saint. It is an endurance sport designed to test your will to live. It is a journey. A dark, sticky-tape-covered journey.

Here are the 7 inevitable stages of Gift-Wrapping Grief you will experience this holiday season.

Stage 1: The Pinterest Delusion (Optimism)

This phase usually happens in November. You are at Target. You see the aisles of coordinating papers—gold foil, matte hunter green, a whimsical reindeer print. Then you buy it all. You buy 600 yards of curling ribbon. You buy “gift tags” that cost $4 each because they are made of recycled birch wood.

You bring it home and lay it all out on the dining room table. You pour a glass of mulled wine. You put on Michael Bublé. “Look at this bounty,” you think. “My family will feel so cherished when they see these masterpieces. I might even make my own bows.”

You are young. You are naive. You still have hope.

Stage 2: The Spatial Awareness Test (Denial)

You select your first victim: a standard rectangular shirt box. Easy mode.

You roll out the paper. You place the box in the center. You eyeball it. You confidently slice the paper with your scissors—listen to that satisfying shhhhhhick sound!

You pull the paper up over the box. It is exactly two inches too short.

“No matter,” you whisper, entering denial. “I’ll just scoot the box over a bit.” You pull from the other side. Now that side is too short. You try to stretch the paper, as if paper is known for its elastic properties.

You solve this problem by cutting a thin ‘patch’ strip of paper. Then, you tape it over the gap. You hope no one looks at the bottom of the box.

Stage 3: The Corner Crisis (Frustration)

You have successfully covered four sides of the box. Now, the ends.

You have watched YouTube tutorials on how to do the “Japanese Department Store Fold.” You pinch the paper inward to create those crisp, diagonal triangles.

Yours do not look crisp. Yours look like the jowls of a very tired bulldog.

There is too much bulk paper. It’s bunching up. You try to trim it, but you cut too deep and expose the cardboard corner of the box. You gasp. You try to fold it again, pressing down with the force of a hydraulic press to make it stay flat. It springs back up immediately.

Stage 4: The Scotch Tape Betrayal (Anger)

You need tape to wrangle the bulldog jowls. You reach for the dispenser.

You cannot find the start of the tape roll. You spin it around repeatedly. You scratch at it with your fingernail like a raccoon trying to open a locked trash can.

When you finally find the edge, you pull a piece off. It immediately twists and sticks to itself in an unbreakable bond. You throw it away.

You pull another piece. You stick it to the present, but your finger is also stuck to the tape. As you pull your finger away, you rip the wrapping paper.

You are now using your teeth to dispense tape because you have lost the will to use tools. You are sweating. Michael Bublé has been replaced by heavy metal.

Stage 5: The Oddly-Shaped Object Meltdown (Bargaining)

You have finished the boxes. Now you look at the remaining pile. It contains: a basketball, a frying pan, and a large stuffed giraffe.

Who bought these things? (You did.)

You pick up the frying pan. You try to wrap the pan part, leaving the handle sticking out. It looks like a weapon. You try to wrap the whole thing, creating a massive, crinkly foil tent.

You start bargaining with the universe. “Please. If I can just find an old gift bag in the back of the closet, I promise I’ll volunteer at a soup kitchen.”

You do not find a gift bag. You roll the giraffe in paper like a giant burrito. Then you tie a ribbon around its neck. It looks distressingly like a chokehold.

Stage 6: The “Good Enough” Pivot (Exhaustion)

It is 1:45 AM. The mulled wine is gone—your back aches. You have run out of the nice gold foil paper.

You find a roll of “Happy Birthday” paper leftover from July. You turn it inside out so it’s just plain white.

You are no longer measuring anything. You are draping paper over objects and indiscriminately applying tape until the item is mostly obscured from view. The back of these presents looks like a crime scene of adhesive.

If a corner rips, you don’t patch it; you just slap a giant stick-on bow directly over the hole.

Stage 7: Radical Acceptance (Surrender)

The final stage. You look at the pile under the tree. There are three nice-looking ones in the front. Behind them is a graveyard of crumpled paper, excessive tape, and visible despair.

A feeling of calm washes over you. Not pride. Just the calm of knowing it’s over.

You realize that on Christmas morning, your family will tear through these hours of agonizing labor in approximately 14 seconds. They will do so like wild badgers. They won’t even pause to notice your failed corners.

You take the final present. It’s a stocking stuffer, oddly shaped like a potato. You would wrap a piece of scrap paper around it. You secure it with five staples because you lost the tape again. Then, you toss it under the tree.

“It’s the thought that counts,” you whisper, pouring another drink.