I evade my family. Like a fugitive, like a witness in hiding, like a man who’s just seen his face on the nightly news and decided, Nope, there’s no solving this, there’s only escape. The gene pool in my bloodline is a turgid puddle. My siblings, the shit and razor blades waiting to accost the careless footfall. Untrustworthy? Absolutely. Unpleasant? Like a fart in hot yoga. Unappealing? Some of their faces are unfortunate, some chose to look like shit, some can’t master the tenets of basic hygiene. I’ve spent years ensuring no one connects me to them, because in this world, success is fragile, and the wrong association can sink you faster than rocks in your pockets. So to them, with no warmth whatsoever, I say: May you prosper elsewhere.

These people have the moral flexibility of a used-car salesman with a gambling problem. If there’s a bad decision to be made, they’ll not only make it — they’ll double down and then ask me to co-sign the bail bond. And the narcissism? Oh, it’s generational. Our family crest might as well be a mirror with the words “Actually, It’s Everyone Else’s Fault” engraved on it.

But it’s not just them — it’s the parade of human red flags they drag into our lives. Every few months, it’s like, “Hey, meet my new best friend!” and out slinks some guy who definitely has a podcast about “the real history they don’t want you to know.” And then, without fail: “You should really give him a chance!” No, I should really change my number.

The audacity of their demands? There’s never something they can’t ask me to do. Need me to Venmo you because your latest “business venture” flopped? Sure. Want me to lie to the landlord again about why you can’t pay rent? Why not. Expect me to pretend I don’t know you when you get into a screaming match in a Walmart parking lot? Already doing it, pal.

But here’s the kicker — none of this is their fault. Oh no. Our parents engineered this shit show like two drunk scientists who only had expired glue and bad intentions. And yet, they love to opine, “We gave you a happy childhood!” I love to imagine curb-stomping their delusions, if I may anthropmorphize them, and then use them to paint the sidewalk.

And then there’s the holiday guilt trips — “I don’t understand why all my friends’ families get together, but we don’t!” Maybe because the last time we tried, dad got into a fistfight with a salad bar and big sis used her fork to secure little bro’s hand to the table. We are not a gathering family. We are a containment family.

So don’t pity me when I’m alone on the holidays. It’s sheer delight. I hope one day to shake loose he damage they’re done so I can learn to give and receive love and build a household of my own. But I recognize this genetic curse might kill me — if my family doesn’t first.