Confessions of a Teardrop on the Floor

"What the fuck is your problem, lady?" the Santa shouted at me. My breath came in ragged rushes as the policeman pinned me to the floor. I must've been a sight for the festive crowds to see as they pushed by, a mess of shiny gold curls, my sapphire eyeliner smeared, my shimmery blouse covered in dust as the policeman pressed me into the filthy linoleum. I wasn't the least bit concerned to think of what my skirt wasn't covering anymore, and one of my sparkling heels had managed to get knocked across to the other end of the aisle. Instead; I was thinking about just how much I hated Christmas.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.