The sweet smell of the Holiday Season is in the air: chestnuts roasting over an open fire, Bubbeh’s homemade latkes sizzling in the pan, honey-baked ham searing in the oven — I sure can’t wait to sink my teeth into that! I do, however, hope you and your thunder thighs enjoy the edamame and seltzer water. Happy holidays from the J-Spot, from my 26-inch waist to yours.

Dear girl who still wears glitter:

Umm … yeah. Quick question: Who are you?

What? You didn’t get the Instant Message? Glitter, you see, died as soon as your first visit from Aunt Flo. It was later beaten with a stick after the first time you made out with someone other than Binky, your favorite stuffed animal. Alas, fair Glitter Maiden, I am no heartless being. In fact, I take pity on cases such as yours, so the following “List of Places Not To Wear Glitter” has been provided to you courtesy of the J-spot: in a house, with a mouse, here or there, anywhere, in a box, with a fox, in a car, in a tree, on a train, in the dark, with a goat, with a boat.

If you had to sound out each word letter by letter, then glitter may still be acceptable. Otherwise, you’ve clearly outgrown it, like you’ve outgrown your winter formal dress from last week. Capiche?

Dear Jamster commercials:

Please stop interrupting the special time I dedicate every week to watching “Laguna Beach.” I do not need a “daily joke” texted to me at 99 cents per message, nor do I need a new ringer — I already purchased “Crazy Frog,” thank you very much. I must say, however, that common sense tells me that the students at Yale aren’t exactly your demographic, especially since most of us are literate and aren’t paying an arm and a leg for wallpaper of a half-naked tramp covered in SAE 30W oil — we already have Q-pac, Toad’s and camera phones. Perhaps if you redirected your forces, you would not only save yourself the costs of paying for the 2-4 a.m. commercial time slot, you’d also free up some hard drive memory on my TiVo. Have you no pity?

Dear chronic Facebook updater:

Now really. You’re not effing Lindsay Lohan. And even if you were (and let me reemphasize that you are not), you are far from ever being able to pull off the blonde-coke-chic-look with those man shoulders. Besides, I doubt anyone other than your pet gerbil actually cares about these cyclic rebirths anyway. Has that much really changed between now and the last 15 minutes?

Hm … let me check *clicks favorites tab and logs into facebook account.*

Well, I see your genre of music has taken a turn. I’m assuming this is either due to your afternoon at BookTrader (eavesdropping on the hipsters existentially deconstructing the lyrics of bands no one has ever heard) or you’ve just added an innocent artist or two after watching “The OC” to create the illusion that you know something worthwhile. Perhaps the relationship status update from “Single” to “In A Relationship with Tizzy” was merited by that fateful night at Wednesday Toad’s where you finally met your soul mate, though don’t be surprised if your credit cards are missing and the next time you see him is in passing while he’s on the New Haven bus.

And, as if you weren’t ignorant enough of your transparency, I’m skeptical that your cup size, nose and waist line miraculously (and I’m talking immaculate-conception miraculously) photoshopped themselves since I last saw you sneaking out of Ashley’s in an Aeropostale hoodie with an extra large milk shake … twice. Lastly, but certainly not least-ly, how did you go from “Favorite Books: do I look like I read?” to “Favorite books: The Unbearable Lightness of Being, anything by Kundera”? Would it be more polite of me if I just asked, instead of accusing you of stalking me?

Let’s face it: You aren’t fooling anyone, and until you get help, resign yourself from altogether. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself another warm comfy corner on The J-spot, but this time, I’ll scour your facebook photo albums — maybe it’s about time you referred your baby cousin to Dr. Rey?

Joe Aphinyanaphongs applies glitter to his belly while surfing the facebook.