The Diary of Frosty the Snowman

Dec. 1: Got bored so I gave myself breasts. Now terribly concerned about toll loneliness is taking on sanity.

Dec. 2: Accidentally wet myself while passing portable space heater section at Wal-Mart. Thrown out by elderly store greeter.

Dec. 3: In attempt to blend in better I replaced current snow head with severed head found under train trestle. Reaction was poor to say the least.

Dec. 4: Tripped on sidewalk, shattering all the bottles of beer I keep cold in my ass.

Dec. 5: Out of desperation tried to build a snow companion, but due to unseasonable warm weather had to use spare auto parts instead. Somehow I knew the moment I placed that magic hat on top of her she would start killing people.

Dec. 6: Became alarmed when I found a lump on my chest. Turns out a kitten had burrowed inside me one night and froze to death.

Dec. 7: Apparently it’s inappropriate to march small children down the streets of town and then across state lines.

Dec. 8: Squirrels striped me naked and took out my eyes. Never should have used walnuts instead of coal for buttons and facial features.

Dec. 9: Why can’t I make any friends? I’m jolly. I’m giving. I can spin my own head on the tip of my finger while doing Satan’s voice from “The Exorcist.” And yet ever night I drink alone.

Dec. 10: Note to self—genitalia should be suggested, not crudely fashioned out of an icicle and two snowballs.

Dec. 11: Spent afternoon writhing in agony after Sanitation Department dumped salt on me.

Dec. 12: Why do I even buy toilet paper? What possible good use can I get out of it?

Dec. 13: There is nothing worse than being alone during the holidays—except being at the mercy of rain, the sun and any kid looking for material to build themselves a snow fort.

Dec. 14: Got Christmas card from Santa. No personal message. Just his stamped signature and a hastily scrawled note reading “To Frothy.”

Dec. 15: Struck several hundred times by snowballs thrown by nasty teenagers. Now weigh 740 pounds.

Dec. 16: Tried to join a church group to be with more people but—depending on the sect—I’m either the fourth or fifth sign of the Apocalypse.

Dec. 17: School board ruled I can no longer hang around elementary playground without pants. Made my own button-fly jeans with extra lumps of coal but somehow that only accentuated the problem.

Dec. 18: Went to dog park in attempt to meet other singles. Left six hours later alone and with two yellow feet.

Dec. 19: Fell face first into a gravel driveway. Now I have 600 teeth and a shirt that takes four hours to unbutton.

Dec. 20: Just heard from Rudolph that Hermey the Dentist got married. Talk about denial.

Dec. 21: Had annual physical. Medical results came back same as always—I simply shouldn’t be.

Dec. 22: Elderly woman mistook me for Pillsbury Doughboy. Thought she was going to tickle my tummy but instead started tearing off huge chunks of snow from my torso and shoving them into her mouth. Her grandson later explained that she thought I was made of delicious crescent roll dough.

Dec. 23: Accidentally rolled down tall snow-covered hill. Wound up taking out three stores and 42 last-minute shoppers.

Dec. 24: Spent Christmas Eve alone, watching “Mister Magoo’s Christmas Carol,” getting hammered on spiked egg nog and carving Nicolette Sheridan’s name over and over again into my chest.

Dec. 25: Went blank when a strong gust of wind blew off my top hat. Came to 12 hours later in a Denny’s wearing an enchanted yarmulke and married to a Cambodian illegal immigrant named Kwen.