Anything but a lawn gnome! It will just end up at the next Give Back Tuesday raffl at the Rainbow. (Getty Images)

Look, I appreciate the thought. I do. I know you care, I know you’re busy, and I know you bravely entered a HomeGoods during peak Mariah Carey season and survived. But in the spirit of holiday honesty—and because my apartment is now 60 percent “quirky” objects with no known purpose—I need to talk about the gifts I absolutely do not want.

I’m not saying no gifts. I’m just saying maybe… not these.

If the gift comes with the unspoken subtitle, “Here’s how to fix you,” please, no.

I don’t need a bathroom scale “to keep you accountable.” I don’t need a shrink-wrapped, 900-page productivity system with “Crush Your Goals!” on the cover. I don’t need a day planner that screams “HUSTLE” on every page like a tiny capitalist drill sergeant.

I promise you, I already know I’m tired, disorganized, and living in mild financial zugzwang. That’s what my notifications are for. If your gift requires me to “level up,” “optimize,” or “finally start that side hustle,” it’s not a present; it’s a performance review.

I cannot receive one more object that tells me to “Live Laugh Love” or “Choose Joy” or “Good Vibes Only.”

First of all, “Good Vibes Only” is a threat. Have you met December? It’s dark at 4:30 and I haven’t seen the sun since Halloween. There are no “only” vibes here. There are mixed vibes, weird vibes, and at least one vibe that needs a snack.

If it looks like it was designed to hang in an Airbnb that sleeps eight and has one pan, I don’t want it. I already live in a millennial starter pack: plants, books, a tasteful candle, and one framed print that says something vague about mountains. I am maxed out on typography.

I love coffee. I love tea. I do not, however, need another 24-ounce ceramic boulder that says “Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee.” If I drank a full mug that size, I’d achieve temporary omniscience and then die.

Same for mugs that announce my personality like a LinkedIn bio: “Dog Mom,” “Plant Lady,” “Boss Babe,” “Wine Enthusiast,” “Procrastination Queen.” At this point, my cabinet is just a chorus of tiny ceramic screams. I will happily accept a good-quality, simple mug that doesn’t shout. A quiet mug. A mug that minds its business.

You know the ones. The plastic-wrapped cube of mystery: micro-towel, loofah that feels like a Brillo pad, three tiny bottles labeled “body mist,” “bubble bath,” and “shower gel,” all in a scent called something like “Frosted Sugar Twilight.”

Those things don’t smell like anything found in nature. They smell like what a committee thinks feelings smell like. If you want to give me a bath gift, give me exactly one good thing: a nice candle, or a decent bath salt, or a fancy bar of soap that doesn’t contain glitter. Glitter is not self-care. Glitter is a curse you place upon my plumbing.

I have a small kitchen. I do not have the square footage for a taco holder system, a strawberry huller, a dedicated avocado slicer, a countertop s’mores maker, and a charming ceramic garlic roaster shaped like… more garlic.

If your gift needs its own instruction manual and performs exactly one task worse than a knife, a fork, or gravity, I cannot accept it. What I would love: one solid chef’s knife, one good pan, or a wooden spoon that won’t snap the second it meets cookie dough. Functional, not whimsical. Unless the whisk also pays my student loans, in which case: whimsical is fine.

If the phrase “some assembly required” is anywhere on the box, I do not want it. I do not want to meet it. I do not want to form a meaningful relationship with its 47 identical screws.

The picture on the front shows a serene human in a spotless living room, smiling faintly at a completed bookcase or dollhouse or workout bench. What it does not show is Step 6, where you discover there is no Step 6, only a drawing of a hand holding a mysterious tool that did not come in the package.

If your gift requires an Allen wrench, two people “recommended for safety,” or the phrase “insert dowel B into slot F while supporting panel D,” you are not giving me a present, you’re scheduling me a shift.

Kids’ toys are even worse. If I need a power drill, wire cutters, and a minor in engineering just to set up the “interactive play experience,” that’s not a gift for your child, that’s a group project for every adult in the room. By the time it’s assembled, the kid has lost interest and is playing with the box, which came fully assembled and required no instructions.

Subscription boxes sound fun until you realize you’re basically signing me up for a monthly group project with myself. “Every month you’ll get ingredients and a recipe and you can cook a gourmet meal!” Sure. Or I can stare at the box, feel guilty, and then order takeout over the top of it.

If the gift arrives every 30 days and demands time, energy, and decision-making, it’s not a present. It’s a recurring task disguised as a treat. Want to give me a subscription? Make it something that reduces my choices, not multiplies them: coffee beans, toilet paper, pet food. The glamorous basics.

Please do not give me a gadget that requires three apps and a firmware update before it will turn on. I do not want a water bottle that tracks my hydration and texts me encouragement. I do not want a Bluetooth- enabled fork that judges my bite speed.

If I have to say “Just a sec, it’s connecting” more than once to use my gift, I will quietly put it in the closet and let it achieve brumation.

This feels obvious, but apparently it isn’t, so: please do not give anyone a live animal as a surprise gift. Not me, not your kids, not your partner. If you want to do something kind and animal-related, donate to the local shelter in our names or offer to cover the adoption fee when we are ready. Otherwise you’re just handing someone a 10–15 year commitment wrapped in a bow they did not agree to.

In the end, what I actually want is boring and painfully millennial: time with the people I like, fewer notifications, and a night where nobody asks me to download a new app to join a Secret Santa.

Give me a walk. A coffee date. A used book you loved and think I might, too. A candle that smells vaguely like a forest and not like “Holiday Unicorn Sugar Cloud.” And if you really, truly must buy me something ridiculous? Fine. Just promise it won’t say “Girlboss” on it.