The gifts land like inside jokes from a universe with a dark sense of humor. An orange for January feels almost quaint, like a throwback to leaner times, while February’s Labrador explodes into full-blown fantasy, the kind of gift no one expects but everyone secretly wants. Cheesecake for March is small, sweet comfort, but April’s prison sentence snaps the mood in half, exposing how close comedy sits to cruelty. May’s engagement ring carries the weight of a life decision, then June’s empty hands ache with the sting of being passed over.

As the year rolls on, the randomness becomes the point. Pizza in July feels human and relatable, a warm slice of normal. August and September soar into postcard wealth with the Bahamas and a new car, only for October’s coal to drag things back into mischief. November’s wine numbs the edges, and December’s nothingness lands like a cosmic shrug. In the end, the list reads like a reminder that holidays are less about fairness and more about the stories we tell afterward—who laughed, who sulked, and who learned to find meaning in getting absolutely nothing at all.