A blue miniature guitar made and purchased in Mexico. It was the size of a ukulele from Hawaii. I must confess; I was greatly underwhelmed. After five golden rings and twelve drummers drumming, this was, putting it mildly, a gyp.

I didn’t even know the 13th day of Christmas was a thing, but, apparently, it is.

So I did what any sane ingrate would do, I hung the guitar on the wall. My true love disapproved and insisted I play the guitar. She told me how much she spent on it, thousands upon thousands of pesos, and I was truly ashamed for my petty doubts. Here, I thought it was just some decorative knickknack. Boy, was I feeling like a serious asswipe.

I plucked the lowest string and slowly turned the tuning peg, the twang tightening, reaching a higher pitch and then, the guitar snapped in half, yeah, totally right in half, an odd clean break, no splinters. The wood crumbled like so much Ikea® pressboard furniture, and out crawled thousands of tiny red spiders or mites.

Confess