[ wp ] It turns out that Hell is having to spend all eternity living out someone else 's idea of Paradise .

The recliner is nice. I'll give someone that. The fireplace is okay too, but between the open fire, the too-thick smoking jacket, and the throw blanket in my lap, I'm almost sweating. And, whereas the recliner is acceptable, the rest of the room is a nightmare of faux-1980's decor that also spat out Christmas decorations in some congratulatory afterbirth. A home and hearth that's some mix between the out of touch parents of a Brat Pack movie and a Martha Steward/Southern Living-inspired hallucination. The hominess is unnerving and suffocating. 
 
 The preternatural forces that bind me to the chair are a vice grip, but I manage to turn my neck towards the kitchen and glance inside. I see a perfect liquor cart by the refrigerator, it's purpose clearly indicated by it's built-in wine rack, but I do n't see a single bottle of scotch, of rum, of gin. No pinot noir, no cabernet sauvignon, no shiraz. No vermouth or campari as mixers. No bitters, no shakers, no strainers. Just tea. I manage to read the word'Herbal' on one of the tins. What the fuck is herbal tea? 
 
 Then, the sight I've been suspecting proves itself to be real. Three disproportional, diminutive humans come clumsily sprinting towards me. A trio of children, energy boundless and bountiful, scramble and collapse on the floor beneath me. One of them clutches some torn book that's clearly seen better days. I recognize the implication, but my denial-ridden brain searches for excuses or plausible alternatives while secretly accepting the depth of the nightmare. 
 
 The claustrophobia is now palpable. The garish glow of Christmas lights on the textured brown carpets and shelves of Little League trophies make me figuratively nauseous. My hand is freed to grab the mug of coffee beside me and I sip it, hoping for a slight bit of relief. It's instant. Acidic, grainy, weak. I'm now literally nauseous. 
 
 The choir of children interject before I can wretch up the black tar. `` Read to us, grandpa!'' 
 
 I shudder at the title, but the preternatural forces force my hand to reach out and grab hold of A Christmas Carol. 
 
 `` Marley was dead, to begin with...''
